


The Bloom After The Blight

by mediaeval_thotte



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Assassination Plot(s), Childbirth, Circle of Magi, Darkspawn, Dwarven Carta (Dragon Age), F/M, Fanon, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Post-Blight, Post-Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening, Pregnancy, Weddings, Young Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-01-03 01:48:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 140
Words: 416,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21171419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mediaeval_thotte/pseuds/mediaeval_thotte
Summary: Sequel to The Lion And The Light. In a post-Blight Ferelden, Florence Cousland must come to terms with the loss of her magic, while Alistair Theirin needs to lead his crippled country towards recovery. Matters are complicated further by royal babies, foreign politics and the return of the Howes. The fisherman's daughter from Herring has a whole new set of challenges to face...





	1. Alistair's Dilemma

A week had passed since the official ending of the Fifth Blight, and the city of Denerim was tentatively venturing back towards normality. It was a great tribute to the _character_ of the people of Ferelden; that they had suffered through the worst and most terrible threat that any nation in Thedas could face _(and it had to be said, Ferelden was hardly the most capable country when compared to its neighbours) _and come out with a dogged sort of optimism. There may have been the odd smouldering crater where the Darkspawn siege weapons had made their mark; the refugee ships still set sail with Fereldans determined to seek better fortunes in the Free Marches; yet the majority of citizens were determined to roll up their sleeves and just _get on with it._

It was common knowledge that their poor nation – poor in _every_ sense of the word, since Ferelden had never been wealthy even during more peaceful times – had been grievously wounded by the Darkspawn horde. The teyrnir of Gwaren was all but destroyed, as were a dozen smaller settlements; including the new general's own seat at South Reach. The Archdemon's army had cut a swathe from south to north, razing crops and tainting land as they went. Acres of valuable arable land had been left polluted and unusable, the animals either poisoned or consumed by the horde.

Yet, the people of Ferelden were a doughty folk, fiercely proud of their ailing homeland and unafraid of the hard work that it would take to restore it. Already, refugees were forming small collectives that they named _restoration committees; _planning strategic returns to their devastated hometowns. Those men and women who had served as soldiers in the great Ferelden Free Army and fought in the final battle against the horde, now turned their minds to the future.

Fortunately, the people had a firm foundation upon which to build their hopes. They had a new Theirin on the throne, one cast so strongly in the vein of Maric that the elders of Denerim swore blind that Alistair Theirin was the very reincarnation of his father. Like Maric, Alistair had proven his worth in battle; risking Royal life and limb to partake in the final fight against the Archdemon.

Located on its high rise overlooking Denerim, the Royal Castle had managed to avoid any superfluous damage from the Darkspawn attack. The servants had been safe within the thick stone walls, which had been bolstered after retaking the land from Orlais. Now the palace resembled more fortress than Royal residence; but as a result, it had managed to withstand the stray trebuchet volley launched towards it by the oncoming horde. There was some minor damage to the east tower and part of the sewerage system needed repairs where the Darkspawn had tried to tunnel their way through solid bedrock, but on the whole it had survived the Blight relatively intact.

The threat of civil war also seemed to have dissipated with the ending of the Fifth Blight. The new king appeared on civil – if not particularly cordial – terms with the disgraced former Teyrn Loghain; who had been horrendously maimed during the final battle. Mac Tir had taken the Grey, but, due to said injures, it was uncertain whether he would continue to follow the calling. The King's Council had been reformed with the new Teyrn Cousland at its head, alongside the Arl of Redcliffe, the Banns of Rainesfere and the Waking Sea, and the commander of the Royal Army, Leonas Bryland.

In addition to a Theirin king, and a reconciled peerage; the people of Ferelden also had another cause for hope. The armies of men, elves and dwarves - which had been so instrumental in defending Denerim - had not been assembled by a member of the established peerage; but by a girl barely out of adolescence, catapulted out of obscurity to make an indelible mark on Fereldan history. This same girl – a hidden scion of the Cousland family – had also been the one to strike down the Archdemon; ultimately ending the Fifth Blight and saving their nation from destruction.

Chantry priests across the city led services in Florence Cousland's honour – exalting how the Maker had compensated her for her bravery by purging both the taint and the touch of the Fade from her body. The removal of the young Cousland's magic was thus recast as a heavenly _reward_; that she was now forever free from the Fade's insidious influence.

Yet it was not so much _this_ that gave the people hope, but the lady Cousland's swollen belly. The teyrn's sister was quite visibly with child, and the king had publicly claimed parentage. Alistair's acknowledgement was not strictly necessary; there were already a _plethora _of tavern songs that portrayed king and Cousland as lovers. These ranged from romantic ballads to lewd refrains that no retainer would dare utter in earshot of his liege-lord.

However, those who assumed that the strife within Ferelden's peerage was mended would have been sorely surprised at the scenes transpiring in the Theirin bedchamber; exactly one week after the Blight had been ended. It was the same evening that Florence Cousland had appeared at the great entrance of the Royal Palace, proving her survival to both her army and the curious townsfolk of Denerim. Those civilians who had made the trek up through the hunting grounds were the first to bear witness to the lady Cousland's swollen stomach, and enjoyed the consequent smugness of delivering the news to enthralled crowds in the taverns below.

After the young Hero of Ferelden had set out her twin arcs of burning remembrance on the turret roof, she had professed herself to be weary; still raw and shocked from the news that her spirits had departed forever, her connection with the Fade severed. The soul of the old god had purged her of extraneous influence; she had entered Fort Drakon as both mage and Grey Warden, and had departed as neither.

Alistair, in his new protective role as father, immediately dismissed Eamon's suggestion of a meeting of the Royal council; instead overseeing his beloved companion's retirement to bed with hawk-like vigilance. After only an hour, there had come an insistent knock at the door: the core of the Landsmeet had come to king when king would not come to them.

They were greeted with Alistair nursing a simmering rage over his dozing lover's bedside, his anger expanding until it reached the wood-beamed ceiling. Unlike most Theodesian Royal quarters; the Theirin bedchamber was sprawling but austere, the furnishings relatively plain, if well-made. Murals of Mabari and warhorses had been daubed onto the plaster walls, interspersed with the occasional stuffed trophy. The most prominent piece of furniture in the room was the bed; raised on a stone step, with four dark posters of wood reaching up to the ceiling. Wide enough to house four, it was covered with a mismatched array of blankets and animal furs.

Florence Cousland – colloquially known as _Flora_ – now lay snoring in the midst of a tangle of bedding, curled up against a tawny fur with a cushion clamped to her cheek. Alistair stood over her like a mother bear defending an injured cub, his handsome olive features flushed with anger as he turned his wrath on his uncle.

"_No," _he hissed towards the Arl of Redcliffe, nostrils flaring and Maric's characteristic temper evident in the twist of his mouth. "Absolutely not. Out of the question!"

"Alistair, " started Eamon in placating tones, starting forward. "Son- "

"Don't _'son' _me!" retorted Alistair a fraction too loudly, then made an effort to mute himself with a glance down at his snoring companion. "I can't believe you'd even suggest it. Flora has saved this country – and your life, uncle, and your town, _and _your son – and you're suggesting we_ lock her back up?"_

The king's nostrils flared indignantly and he paced an angry circle about the bed, lifting the golden band from his head and letting it drop onto the furs.

Eamon shot a meaningful glance towards the others, who were standing a safe distance away near the hearth. These consisted of Ferelden's most influential peers – including the only remaining teyrn, Fergus Cousland – and a handful of Flora's companions.

Fergus took a deep breath, stepping forward to face Alistair square-on. He raised his palms to show amiable deference, attempting to snare the king's gaze with his blue-grey stare.

"No one is suggesting that we _lock her up, _Alistair," he murmured, bravely standing his ground as Alistair turned a predatory green-flicked glare in his direction. "But the Grand Cleric has agreed to officially confirm Florence's non-mage status – _after_ she spends a month under constant surveillance by the Templar Order, in their nearest monastery. Revanloch is only a short ride from the city walls."

Alistair sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb Flora as she mumbled bleary and incoherent. His sister-warden no longer dreamt – a consequence of her severance from the Fade.

"But, a whole_ month,"_ he said, bleakly. "I can't be without Lo for that long. I _need_ her, Fergus."

"You could visit her every day," Fergus replied, with a quickness that suggested he and Eamon had already discussed the subject extensively. "Besides, I don't imagine that she'd want for company. I think visitors will be queuing up to see her; myself and Finn in the front of the line."

"Aye," Leonas added quietly, the arl standing stiffly beside the hearth. "The lass is like a daughter to me. I'd happily go and read with her of an afternoon."

There came general grunts of agreement from Flora's companions; all clustered on the other side of the bed, save for Sten and Morrigan.

Alistair passed a tired hand over his face, rumpling the hair at the top of his head. He glanced down once more at Flora, who was now flat on her back with her mouth open, the blankets tangled around her swollen waist. Reaching down, he moved one of the heavy furs up to her chin, tucking it in around the edges.

"I don't understand why it needs to be publicly endorsed by the Chantry, anyway," he muttered, bitterly. "It's obvious that Flo's lost her magic. The Circle has confirmed it, the Templar Order has tested her blood. She's less susceptible to the Fade than you or I in her current state."

There was an elongated pause, during which Fergus glanced at Leonas, and Eamon at his younger brother. The Arl of Redcliffe gave a slight nod, and Teagan spoke up, quietly.

"Because if the Chantry confirms it, then the Landsmeet will corroborate it," the bann explained, his green Guerrin eyes focusing steadily on Alistair's own.

"So?" retorted Alistair, belligerently.

"Well, don't you want to make her your wife? To sit beside you as queen, rather than simply as mistress?"

There was another long silence, which expanded to fill the room like a thick, portentous miasma. Wynne glanced swiftly at Leliana; both women had predicted and extensively discussed this potential series of events.

Alistair blinked for a moment, his pupils expanding and constricting in rapid succession. His mouth twisted, and he dropped his gaze to Flora's limp, bandaged palm as it lay motionless on the blankets.

"Of _course_ I do," he said at last, bleakly. "I've wanted to marry her since last Satinalia. I just… I just never thought it would be possible."

"Well, Alistair," replied Eamon, his voice soft and persuasive. "If you agree to this, it _will _be possible. The Landsmeet would approve, you could take Florence as your bride, and your child would be born legitimate."

_A Theirin on the throne, and one in the cradle. The dynasty would be secure. And the country's stability would be ensured._

"But would _mi florita _even desire this path?" Zevran interrupted, his voice shadowed. "You talk about her as though she has no choice in the matter. She hardly embraced becoming a Cousland, why would she want to become a _queen?"_

The elf was leaning against the hearth, arms crossed and a scowl writ across his tan, tattooed face. The assassin had mastered a peculiar duality of gaze; where he could focus on one aspect within his purview, while simultaneously keeping an eye on something in the background. In this case Zevran's stare was trained hawklike on Arl Eamon's lined face, yet he was continually glancing down to where Flora lay snoring in bed.

There was another long silence; and this time, it was Alistair's turn to flinch.

"That's my fault," he said eventually, voice raw. "I can't help this bloody parentage of mine."

Wynne cleared her throat, moving her wrinkled fingers absentmindedly over the notebook she kept hanging on a chain at her waist.

"If Florence becoming queen would give hope to Ferelden," the senior enchanter mused, in measured tones. "I believe that she would do it, despite her reservations. She has a sense of duty second to none. And she'll need a task to perform now that she cannot heal."

Alistair, still perched on the edge of the bed, turned to face his former sister-warden. He leaned down and kissed Flora tenderly on the edge of her forehead, lips brushing her hairline. One hand went to settle on the curve of her belly, prominent enough to be visible even through the thick furs that covered it.

"If she's in a monastery outside the city, I can't protect her," he said, throatily. "She can't shield herself any more, and she's got no type of… no combat skills. She can't even wield a _dagger._ How am I supposed to defend her and our child if she's not by my side?"

"Well, she'll be surrounded by church soldiers," Finian said, reasonably. "I've visited one of those monasteries before. You can't move without a Chantry Mother breathing down your neck."

"I know," snapped Alistair, uncharacteristically harsh. "I spent ten years in one. It doesn't mean that she'll be _safe- "_

"What if I stay with her?" piped up Leliana, her musical Orlesian tongue standing out above the native Fereldan tones. "They'll permit me to stay, since I'm a lay-sister. If I promise to stick to Florence's side like one of her Herring limpets, would that help to assuage your fears?"

Alistair's gaze moved appraisingly over the bard, whose innocuous smile and demure Chantry robes masked one of the most skilled fighters that he had ever known. Leliana, to his knowledge, had never been bested in combat – had not permitted even a scratch to mar her creamy, perfumed flesh – and a keen intelligence lay behind the earnest blue stare.

There was a tense pause; Eamon glanced at Leonas and Teagan at Fergus. Finally, Alistair let out a long sigh, his face crumpling.

"Fine. But I'm going to tell her."

Wynne cleared her throat, the pointed sound interrupting Alistair's hand before it could settle on Flora's pyjama-clad shoulder.

"Alistair?"

Alistair stared at the senior enchanter, his handsome face creased with weariness and guilt.

"What is it, Wynne?"

The old mage grimaced, pale eyes settling on where the snoring Flora lay tangled in the blankets.

"I wouldn't mention to her the possibility of becoming queen yet," she murmured, quietly. "Florence has enough to cope with at the moment, with the loss of her magic. Let her work through that first."

Alistair gave a tight nod, before waking his former sister-warden with a soft kiss to her mouth, cupping her cheek against his palm.

"Sweetheart?"


	2. Breaking The News To Flora

Flora yawned into the cushions, lifting her bandaged hand to her head sleepily. Seeing Alistair's handsome, concerned face hovering over her, she gave him a reflexive smile; then remembered the disappearance of her spirits and flinched, the loss still a raw and painful wound.

"It's so strange, not going to the Fade," she whispered, registering no one's presence save for that of her best friend. "When I sleep now, there's just – _nothing. _I suppose it's peaceful, but… I'm not used to it."

Alistair leaned his face down to hers, feeling a sudden lurch of sadness deep in his gut as he gazed into his former sister-warden's wide, unsuspecting grey eyes. In an attempt to assuage his guilt, he pressed a kiss first to her forehead, then to each cheek, then to the end of her nose.

"I love you," he said, the words emerging as earnestly as they had done when he had first uttered them; in a draughty bedroom at Redcliffe Castle. "I love you more than the world, Flora of Herring."

Flora blinked at him, finally registering the presence of the others crowded around the walls of the Royal bedchamber. None of them looked particularly happy, but it was Alistair's grieved face that disconcerted her the most.

"Flora- "

"What's wrong?" she asked in a small voice, pushing herself up on the cushions and kicking the furs from where they were wrapped around her legs."What's happened? Is it more Darkspawn? I'll run after the armies and get them back- "

"No, sweetheart, nothing's wrong," Alistair hastened to reassure her, his hand smoothing down a thick strand of sleep-rumpled hair. "I- it's just… the Chantry says- "

He trailed off helplessly, the words tangling together on his tongue. Eamon stepped forward, clearing his throat and snaring her wide eyes with his steady Guerrin gaze.

"Florence, the Chantry needs to put you under observation for some time before they can publicly announce that you've been cured of magic- "

"_Cured?!"_

Flora sat up a little straighter in indignation, nostrils flaring. Eamon pressed onwards; already envisioning the stability that a popular queen and legitimate Theirin heir would bring.

"The Grand Cleric and Knight-Commander have agreed to house you in the Revanloch monastery, during which time you will be kept under close observation by Templars. After that, the Chantry will- "

Flora sat bolt upright, her eyes widening in dismay.

"You're sending me away?" she croaked, red blotches quickly rising to the surface of her cheeks. "You're sendin' me away and _lockin' me up?"_

Visions of the Circle flooded Flora's mind and she scrambled out of bed, clearly agitated, ducking Alistair's entreating arms.

"Darling- "

Alistair immediately rose to his feet and headed to the other side of the bed; Flora avoided him with surprising agility considering that she was five months weighed down with child. Her voice rose in hurt and confusion, indignity writ stark across her fine-hewn Cousland features. A sudden hormonal surge accompanied this distress, and tears began to well in the corners of her eyes.

"You want to send me away because I'm _useless _now! Because I can't cure the taint!" Flora wailed, entirely missing the point. "I don't want to be locked up again, I can't, _I won't- ! _I'm goin' away, I'm goin' back to HERRING- "

With a melodramatic toss of the head, Flora sailed out of the room with her dishevelled ponytail streaming behind her; despite the adolescent angst, there was a genuine poignancy to her diminutive pyjama clad figure as she scuttled barefoot down the Royal corridor.

Alistair swore under his breath, shooting Eamon a dark look as he made to follow his distraught companion. Wynne reached out a hand to intercept him, lined fingers curling into his leather sleeve.

"Wait, Alistair. You're hardly the best person to reassure Florence, since you didn't even _want_ this confinement to happen in the first place. I'll go after her."

Alistair's eyebrows rose as he took in the senior enchanter's thoughtful expression, indignity infusing his own voice.

"You surely don't approve of this idea, Wynne?!"

"I think that the girl has the opportunity to be in a very unique position," Wynne retorted, her sky-coloured eyes giving a flash. "I think she could do a lot of good as your wife, and it would be nice to have a leader sympathetic to mages, for once. It's only for a month, Alistair. Doesn't Ferelden deserve the best possible Queen?"

Alistair gave a defeated half-nod, reluctantly grasping the enchanter's argument.

"Of course Ferelden deserves the best," he muttered, sinking down onto the edge of the bed. "And Lo _is_ the best. But she won't do it, Wynne, you saw her just now- "

"Oh, she _will _do it," replied Wynne, her tone sharpening a fraction. "I'll talk some sense into her."

"I'll come with you," offered Leonas Bryland, a rueful and humourless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The arl – who was the only one in the room with an adolescent daughter – was well-accustomed to handling bouts of feminine distress.

Flora had burst from the Royal bedchamber so quickly that the guards did not even have time to open the doors for her. Careless of her dishevelled appearance, she stormed down the corridor; caught halfway between distress and indignation.

She passed pairs of soldiers clad in gold and crimson Theirin livery, who scrambled to do the pike-shift from hand to hand to mark the approach of a Hero of Ferelden. The portraits of the great rulers of Ferelden loomed up on either side – Maric, Moira, Brandel – and Flora duly ignored them.

As she neared the portrait of the hunted _halla_ at the top of the staircase, she sensed someone with a longer stride rapidly gaining on her. It did not sound like her former brother-warden – this pursuer was heavier on their feet, and they sounded slightly out of breath.

Despite this, they had no issue in catching up with her – a relatively simple task, considering that their quarry was only a handful of inches over five foot, and carrying an extra sixteen pounds of weight on their abdomen.

"I'm going back to Herring NOW!!_" _declared Flora tearfully, catching sight of Leonas Bryland out of the tail of her eye. "Don't try and stop me!"

"I'm not going to try and stop you, child," Leonas said, and she shot him a suspicious glance. "You're perfectly entitled to go wherever you please."

Flora wiped her nose on the Theirin-crested pyjama sleeve and eyed Leonas, slowing down a fraction as they approached the _halla_ portrait together.

The Arl of South Reach bore his usual faintly disgruntled expression, one hand still heavily bandaged after a Hurlock had taken several fingers during the final battle. He wore a Chantry amulet bearing Andraste's seal on one side, and the emblem of his doomed seat on the other.

Once he saw he had her attention, Leonas reached into his tunic and pulled out a small leather-bound book, with a pencil attached by an unravelling string.

"Now, what supplies will you require for your journey back to Herring?" he asked, his voice mild. "I'll be happy to provide whatever you need, Florence, as well as an escort. I won't have Bryce's daughter travelling alone and unprovisioned."

Flora blinked, coming to a stop just beneath the hunted _halla. _Its wide, mournful eyes and miserable expression mirrored her own, as she stared at Leonas Bryland with abject forlornness. Abruptly, she sat down on the top step of the stairs, resting her chin on her knees and staring gloomily at her bare feet.

Grunting slightly as his stiff limbs protested, Leonas lowered himself onto the step beside Flora. They sat together in silence for several minutes, with she giving the occasional hiccup and he quietly offering her his handkerchief.

"I'm not really going to go back to Herring," said Flora at last, in a small and tearful voice. "But why are they putting me in _jail?_ I haven't been _on the rob _or nothing."

Leonas wisely stifled a chuckle at her northern patois, taking back the square of linen.

"Of course you've done nothing wrong, pup. And it's not _jail_, it's a Templar monastery. Not the most entertaining of places to be sure, but it's certainly no dungeon."

"And only for a month, Florence."

The senior enchanter manifested from the shadows of the corridor, kindness and sternness breaking even in her voice. Wynne did not deign to also sit on the step beside Flora, but she did brush her hand kindly over the rumpled, dark red head.

"One month at the monastery, and then the Chantry will publicly announce that you are no longer a mage. No matter what happens in the future, no Circle – or Templar - will ever lay claim to you again. Think of the peace of mind that will bring to those that love you, child."

Flora twisted her head to gaze up at Wynne, her grey eyes damp and miserable as rain-clouds.

"Everyone keeps calling it a _miracle_," she whispered, rubbing at her nose with her sleeve. "The fact that my magic is gone. It doesn't feel like a miracle. It feels like part of me is gone. It's _painful."_

"It will be painful, Flora, but even painful wounds heal without magic, with time," the senior enchanter replied, softly. "One day you will wake up and it will hurt a little less than the night before; and then that will happen again and again, until the pain is but a quiet sigh in the back of your mind."

Wynne's voice was distant, and she seemed to be speaking of something other than the removal of Flora's magic.

"You promise it will?"

"Yes, child."

Flora nodded, swallowing her fear as she had needed to do so many times before in her short life.

"Alright," she said with only the slightest tremor to her voice, lifting her chin slightly. "I'll go to the mon- the _monisturgy_. Arl Bryland?"

"I've told you a thousand times to simply call me Leonas, pup, but – yes?"

"_Arl Leonas,_ I'm sorry that I can't grow your wife's arbour-garden again, like I said I would," Flora said earnestly, remembering how she had coaxed forth blossoming life in the South Reach garden "Well, I can still help you with it, but… it'll need to be the old-fashioned way."

Leonas let out a half-bark of laughter, to hide how touched he was. He dropped his hand to Flora's head and gave her hair a rough tousle before pushing himself awkwardly to his feet.

On the way back to the Royal bedchamber, Wynne reached out to touch Flora's arm; the young Cousland instinctively dropped back to walk alongside the elder mage.

"Take this month of confinement as an opportunity to learn who Florence Cousland _is_ without her spirits," the senior enchanter murmured, her clever blue eyes moving over Flora's face. "You're a very beautiful girl and men will fall over themselves to make life easy for you. Don't rely on anyone overmuch, until you..._re-learn.._. your own self. Do you understand what I mean, child?"

Flora gave a vague nod, biting absent-mindedly at her lower lip.

"I hope they don't _actually_ fall over," she replied at last, solemnly. "I won't be able to mend any broken bones from now on."

Inside the Royal bedchamber, Alistair was sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, Teagan perched beside him murmuring assurances into his ear. Two servants were discretely piling more logs onto the great hearth; despite it being a mild summery night, the royal palace was perpetually cool and damp.

Flora entered with Leonas and Wynne at either side, her head bowed with embarrassment at having made such a dramatic exit. At Zevran's delighted exclamation of _mi florita!, _Alistair looked up with naked hope scrawled across his olive features.

"Sorry for making a fuss," muttered Flora, not quite able to meet anyone's eye. "I'll go to the mon- _monister_."

"Monastery," corrected Finian under his breath, flashing a quick smile at his sister.

"Monastery," repeated Flora, immediately before being swept into Alistair's desperate, affectionate embrace. He clutched Flora tight to his chest, feeling the firm swell of their child between them; burying his face in the untidy abundance of red hair and inhaling her scent.

"My love," he murmured, desperate to provide some reassurance for the both of them. "Leliana has volunteered to stay with you, so you won't be alone. I'll have guards patrolling the perimeter of the monastery day and night. I'll make sure that only the most experienced and devout Templar are set to watch over you. You and the baby will be safe, I swear to the Maker."

Flora had stopped listening after Alistair had mentioned Leliana; needing no further guarantee. Twisting her neck slightly, she smiled across at her fellow redhead, who waved elegant Orlesian fingers in her direction.

"I look forward to a month of quiet contemplation and giving thanks to our Maker for our redemption from the Blight!" chirped the bard, indomitable as always.

"And I'll come and visit you every single evening, darling," Alistair continued, eager to compensate for this added burden on his already grieved lover. _"Every_ evening, I swear it. It'll be what keeps me going through all the eight hour council meetings."

Flora knew that Alistair was feeling horribly guilty – she could see it writ plain across his face – and suddenly wanted to alleviate his dismay. She reached up and touched him, tracing the line of the Theirin jaw with the tip of her thumb.

"I'll look forward to your visit," she said, pulling Alistair's head down to her own so that she could press a kiss to his cheek. "I can practice my reading and writing while I'm there. I'll set myself the goal of learning how to spell my own name."

A relieved Alistair smiled anxiously, then bent to press his lips against hers.

"My lovely Lola," he murmured, quiet enough for just her to hear. "Andraste, I'm a blessed man."

Finian added his own guarantee of frequent visits, promising to bring her some easy written exercises that they could work through together.

Flora's gaze moved sideways, to where Zevran and her brothers were standing near the hearth. For a split second, before the elf noticed Flora looking, Zevran looked tired and older than his near-three decades. Flora narrowed her eyes at him; Zevran spotted her and immediately blew over a little kiss, accompanied by the characteristic wink. Flora was not fooled by the elf's quick masking of emotion, especially since she had relied on her own solemn _mien _to hide her feelings more times than she could count – _literally, _since she found it hard to count beyond twenty-nine.

As the others drifted out in small clumps after Alistair's pointed cough, Flora sidled over to where the elf was adjusting the buckle on his glove.

"Zevran?"

The surface smile returned, quick and bright as lightning across a summer sky.

"Yes, my buxom beauty? Being with child suits you."

Flora refused to be distracted by Zevran's lechery, knowing that he was prone to use it as a diversionary tactic.

"Is there something that you're not telling me?"

"Many things, _mi amor," _the elf purred, immediately. 

"Zev-_raaaan…"_

Flora pulled a face at him and the elf relented a fraction, darting her a quick look.

"_Nena, _just promise me one thing- "

Her brows drew together and she focused on him, giving a solemn little nod.

"Eh?"

"That – that no matter what position you hold in life, you'll always be able to spare a minute or two for your Antivan elf companion, _hm? _I count you as a… as a_ good friend_, and I should be sorry to lose you."

"Of course you won't _lose _me," Flora retorted, perplexed. "Why would you ask such a thing? What _position_ am I going to hold_?"_

Zevran shot her a wistful smile, then dropped into an exaggerated bow.

"Ah, no reason, _mi sirenita. _Tell me, will you be adopting Chantry dress during your residence at the monastery? Full length robes and ornamental headpieces?"

"_No!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: At the end of the day, Flora is a Herring girl, and Herring girls just get on with it! I actually think it's a good thing for her to have some time in quiet isolation – to mourn the loss of her spirits properly – without getting immediately caught up in Ferelden politics. Losing her spirits is almost like losing family – they had been with Flora through Herring, the Circle, the Blight… and she does need to grieve, though she doesn't realise it yet. Plus, Leliana can prepare the unwitting Flora for becoming queen (starting with NOT storming out of a room like a stroppy teenager, haha).


	3. I'm Not Made Of Glass!

After everybody else had taken their leave, king and mistress sat side by side on the Royal bed; his arm slung protectively around her shoulders. The candelabras had bled down to waxy stumps, leaving the room cast in a faint red glow from the smouldering hearth. The fire spat and hissed as it shot sparks up the chimney breast, rolling forth waves of cedar-scented heat into the bedchamber.

Flora, to distract herself from the prospect of a month spent under intense Templar scrutiny, was counting the Mabari painted around the border of the hearth. These plaster hounds were interspersed with crimson Theirin lions; some depicted as frolicking about and others lying down peacefully together.

"I don't think that's very realistic," Flora said at last, frowning up a loll-tongued Mabari paw-in-paw with a Theirin lion. "I think that the lion would eat the dog, not hold hands with it."

"Have you ever met a lion, my love?" Alistair replied in half-distracted tones, focusing on the profile of his sister-warden as she gazed up at the painted murals. The firelight brought warmth to Flora's pale skin and lit lustrous filaments in her dark red hair, bright skeins running through her braid like copper wire fresh from the forge. The golden fleck in her iris – a memento of when Flora had been able to breath life as easily as air – was illuminated by the reflected heat, a fragment of gilt against a watercolour background.

"I've never met a lion," Flora said, stifling a yawn. "I think that they must be like the… the _sharks of the land."_

Alistair stifled a laugh, then felt his gut constrict in sadness at the prospect of parting from his best friend for an entire month. He wrapped his other arm around Flora, lowering his head to her shoulder and burying his face in the familiar texture of her hair. Her scent was as comforting as a hot meal and a soft bed after an arduous journey; and he took a long, unsteady inhalation.

"Maker's Breath, I'm going to miss you, Lola."

"You'll see me every day," Flora reminded Alistair, running her fingers across the broad, muscular expanse of his back as he pressed a kiss to her hair.

"Yes, but- " Alistair broke off, his mouth having discovered her earlobe buried in a tangled mass of scarlet. He nuzzled his face against it for a moment, then kissed the lobe gently, teasing the outer curve with his tongue until he heard her breath catch in her throat.

"We'll have Templars and Chantry Mothers breathing down our necks," he murmured, his thumb dropping down to caress the delicate line of her collarbone. "We won't have a moment of privacy."

Flora inhaled, feeling something deep within her instinctively respond to her brother-warden's low murmur. She tilted her face up, letting her fingers trail over his leather-clad chest.

"You could always get some winches," she said, then blinked as Alistair gave a snort of humour. "What?"

"_Wenches, _sweetheart. Who told you what a _wench _was, anyway? Don't tell me, the blasted elf!"

"No! Bann Teagan was talking about them. Wenches."

"_Teagan?!"_

"He didn't know I was in the room," Flora explained, tracing a line from her brother-warden's heart to his abdomen. "I was sitting in the corner and being quiet."

Despite no longer having the healer's sight, she could still easily remember each vital organ's location.

_Heart, lung-bags, stomach pouch. Kidneys._

Alistair let out another soft grunt of amusement, his palm dropping to cup Flora's breast through the linen of her pyjamas.

"Anyway, I don't want _wenches. _I want you, my beautiful girl," he murmured thickly, brushing his calloused thumb over where he knew her nipple to lie. "And I won't be able to _have_ you for another month. Unless…?"

He gave her breast a gentle, suggestive squeeze; circling its stiffening tip with his thumb. Flora gave an experimental wriggle, and her body responded with a dull throb, limbs still sore from the final battle.

"I think I'm too achey," she said reluctantly, and Alistair immediately withdrew his fondling fingers; substituting groping with a chaste embrace and a kiss on the cheek.

"Of course, my darling," he breathed, hand dropping to rest protectively on Flora's swollen abdomen. "Let's just have a cuddle instead. Besides, I've got lots of fond memories to reminisce over in the meantime."

Alistair winked at her and Flora smiled back at him, resting her head contentedly against his shoulder.

* * *

Both awoke in melancholy mood the next morning, curled up warm in a tangle of entwined limbs. Alistair sat yawning on the edge of the bed, watching his best friend pack up her scant belongings in the battered leather pack that she had owned since Ostagar. Despite the optimism of the sun, gleaming with bright hopefulness through the leaded windows, neither one of them were in the mood for its cheerfulness.

"It's only for a month," Alistair said out loud, as though trying to reassure himself. "Four weeks. And I'll see you every evening. _Every evening, _Lo, without fail!"

Flora let out a little grunt, having packed _Exotic Fish of Thedas _out of habit. With slight astonishment she took it out again, placing the leather-bound tome on the blankets.

"I'd like a new book to read," she said, wistfully. "Do you think Fergus or Finian might ever buy me another one? I could pay them back … somehow."

Alistair refrained from mentioning that the Landsmeet had promptly agreed to grant the arling of Amaranthine to their new Hero of Ferelden; and that a bank vault within Denerim was already beginning to receive customs duties in Flora's name.

"Flo, say the word, and I'll have a whole _library _sent down to the monastery," he replied, impulsively. "Anything you want, just say, and I'll get it for you."

Flora shot him a slightly appalled look, nostrils flaring as she tied up the laces of her pack with a fisherman's knot.

"I'd need to live as long as a Par Vollen sea-turtle to finish reading a _library."_

* * *

As promised, Flora's companions - both noble and common - gathered on the palace forecourt to escort her on the road to the Revanloch monastery. It was a beautiful summery day, the salt-taste of the sea drifted lightly on the air and the city of Denerim spread out like a storybook town on the banks of the estuary below. It was hard to envision that the Darkspawn horde had been baying for blood outside the city walls only a week prior. Denerim Castle rose up like a protective guardian over the Theirin seat, stoic and sprawling; not the most attractive of Theodesian royal palaces, but certainly one of the most formidable.

The stable-boys led out a selection of thoroughbred Ferelden Forders, each one groomed to a glossy sheen The largest one naturally went to the tallest man present; the new Theirin king. As the others mounted up around him, Alistair – for the first time in his life – experienced a flash of anxiety as he gazed up at the lofty saddle.

"What's wrong, lad?" Teagan, sporting the ochre and cream colours of Rainesfere, nudged his own steed over with an expert knee.

Alistair gnawed on his lip, then glanced over at his pregnant mistress. Flora was standing on the gravel, talking earnestly to the mounted Finian – possibly entreating him for another book.

"Maybe Flo should ride in a carriage, or something- " he began, hesitatingly. "If she falls from the horse…"

Teagan, who had once seen his elder brother equally protective over Isolde, reached down and clapped Alistair's shoulder, reassuringly.

"You can call for a carriage if you wish," he murmured, in a low enough voice not to be overheard by Flora. "But I don't believe that you'd ever let her fall. Have some _faith_ in yourself, Alistair, you're one of the best horsemen in Ferelden."

"Not as good as you, uncle," replied Alistair, smiling reflexively as Flora wandered over to him.

"Finian says he's going to see if there's a sequel to _Exotic Fish of Thedas!"_she breathed, eyes wide with awe. "Imagine! More fish of the world!"

Alistair grinned at her, forcing down his fears and assuming a cheerful expression.

"Right, darling, up we go- careful now- "

Gripping her around the waist, he propelled her gently upwards onto the saddle. Flora looked slightly confused – usually, Alistair mounted first and then hauled her up behind him like a sack of potatoes.

To Alistair's relief, Teagan reached out to grip Flora's elbow as she perched astride the saddle, keeping her firmly in place while the king planted boot in stirrup and lifted himself up behind her. Once seated squarely across the leather seat, Alistair immediately clamped a protective arm around his sister-warden's swollen waist.

"Why are you treating me like I'm made of GLASS?" hissed Flora indignantly in his ear. "Last week, we were galloping along the city walls with a giant dragon breathing fire at us, remember?"

Alistair went a shade paler: he remembered only too well.

"I'm not going to apologise for wanting to keep you safe, Flora," he replied, with a thin vein of Theirin steel running through the words. "You can't summon your shield anymore."

Flora slumped slightly, the loss of her spirits still a raw wound. Alistair sensed her sadness and pressed a kiss to her hair, seeking out her ear with his lips.

"_I'll_ be your shield, sweetheart," he replied, softly. "You've spent almost a year protecting me: let me do the same for you."

Flora swivelled around as best she could in the saddle, reaching her arms up to wrap around her handsome brother-warden's neck. Alistair embraced her back as tight as he dared, kissing her on the forehead, nose and lips in rapid succession.

"Whenever you're ready," Eamon called out across the cobbles, no rancour in his tone.

At the boundary of the Royal hunting grounds, a pair of soldiers approached to inform them that there were throngs of people lining the streets. The city guard had managed to clear a path, but the party should be prepared for crowds. This caused a slight delay as additional Royal Guard were summoned from the barracks, in sufficient number to form a steel blockade around the king's company.

Fergus saw that his sister was looking slightly apprehensive, and called out to reassure her.

"They're not expecting an _attack_, Floss! They're supposed to keep the people from crowding around you. Don't worry about it, petal."

As the guards had warned, the streets of Denerim were indeed thronged with people who wished to see both their new king, and the girl who had slain an Archdemon. Additionally, they wanted to confirm with their own eyes the rumours that had sprung up yesterday; that the lady Cousland was heavy with a _Theirin _child.

Several of Flora's companions enjoyed the attention – Oghren was basking in the reflected glory that came with being one of the _mighty__ heroes _who had gathered Ferelden's free army; and expected to never pay for a drink again in his life. Leliana, who was wearing her most demure and elegant Chantry robe in preparation for the monastic confinement, accepted the praise of the crowd with refined grace.

Zevran, meanwhile, was keeping as unobtrusive as possible near the back of the company. He had formulated vague plans for the immediate future, and they did _not _involve having his features emblazoned upon the memories of every citizen in Denerim. Wynne also did not relish the attention, although it was nice – she mused quietly – to have the people cheering at her, as opposed to glowering with suspicion.

The party meandered down on horseback through the noble district, the wide cobbled avenues affording plenty of space for the crowds to gather. The various households had come spilling out onto the streets; a rainbow myriad of retainers clad in the different colours of their liege-lords. There was green for South Reach, ochre for Redcliffe, violet for Calon; and the men of Highever marched proudly behind their teyrn and his battle-scarred brother, who had gone up a great deal in their estimation. These crowds managed to restrain themselves, since most of them had seen both Flora and the new king either during the Landsmeet, or up in the royal palace.

Once the company crossed the canal into the market district, the nature of the crowd changed slightly. It was now made up of ordinary Denerim townsfolk; who were fiercely loyal to their home-grown Theirin dynasty and equally proud of their unlikely, solemn-faced young Hero. Rumours spread like wildfire around the various neighbourhoods as people slowly recognised the lady Cousland as the girl who had spent hours down the docks healing refugees; who had offered her services free of charge to anybody who required mending. They had already been told in the Chantries of the 'Maker's miracle' that had purged both taint and magic from their young commander's blood; and were eager to congratulate her on this dual deliverance.

Now they called out for Flora's attention, waving and cheering; and if not for the silverite ring of Royal Guard, they would have pressed forward to surround the king's horse. Instead, they tossed scarlet ribbons and posies of flowers in the company's path, thrusting Chantry tokens onto the pikes of the guardsmen.

Alistair, the gold band of Landsmeet-granted authority placed prominently on his head, smiled easily down at his people. The Theirins had always had the gift of charisma, it ran strong in their ancient Alamarri blood. He raised a hand to acknowledge the calls, keeping his other arm tightly anchored about Flora's swollen abdomen.

Flora was used to riding amongst crowds, since they had made frequent appearances on horseback before their army. However, she was unused to being the target of such unanimous applause – she did not even cope well with individual praise – and felt deeply uncomfortable.

_It wasn't even me who ended the Blight. It was you. And you're gone._

_You're gone, aren't you?_

She paused, heart in mouth, but – as expected – received no reply.

Alistair felt his former sister-warden slump on the saddle before him; and assumed that it was merely due to her discomfort at being amidst so many people.

"We'll be through the city gate soon, my love," he murmured, resting his chin for a moment atop her head. "Then it won't be so crowded."

Flora let out a small sound of miserable acquiescence, still brooding on the loss of her spirits.

Alistair let the reins drop for a moment, using his strong thighs to control the movement of the horse. Turning his best friend in his arms, he kissed her squarely on the mouth; stroking the soft peach-fine hairs on her cheek as tenderly as if they were alone in the bedchamber.

The crowd gave a ripple of excitement, a smattering of applause breaking out at such a public display of affection. A little elven girl ran forward with a determined expression on her narrow, fine-boned face, darting past the guards and thrusting something up towards Alistair's boot. The king reached down a gloved hand to retrieve a long crimson ribbon, reminiscent of the scarlet banners that had been tied to the pikes and sword-hafts of Ferelden's first free army.

Alistair gazed at it for a moment, explicitly touched, and then swiftly tied the skein of crimson silk in a bow around Flora's high ponytail. The crowd demonstrated their approval loudly, with hands and feet and gaping mouths.

Eamon shot a quick glance towards Leonas and Fergus; both men returned the pointed look with brief nods of acknowledgement.

_The people want her with Alistair. The Landsmeet wants her as queen. All that needs to be done now is to convince the lass herself. It's a long way from a fisherman's village to a throne._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note:Both Alistair and Flora are still in the habit of referring to each other as brother- and sister-warden, even though that's technically not true any more.
> 
> The wenches thing was inspired by Oren, poor little sod! Alistair is still in his ridiculously over-protective phase. I wanted to show his slightly 'harder' personality in that he's not afraid to defend his concern for Flora's well-being. The chapter title also has a dual meaning, since Flora is actually far weaker now than she was in the previous story – she has no way to defend herself, and she's also emotionally fragile due to her recent 'bereavement' re spirits leaving, etc
> 
> I also realised that I forgot to explain what a 'free army' was, and I kept referring to the elves/dwarves/mages as one in the last story. Sorry! It's a name to refer to an army not gathered by a monarch.


	4. En Route To Revanloch Monastery

As predicted, the crowds began to wane once the mounted party reached the city walls. To everyone's relief, the road from the south west gate neatly skirted the Alamarri plains, where they had all spent far too much time over the past six weeks. Instead, it followed a pleasant, if windswept, grassy route along the clifftop that stretched south from Denerim. The sky was as clear and bright as a blue jay's wing; the occasional wisp of cloud hanging over the placid expanse of the Amaranthine Ocean.

"What a beautiful Justinian day," Leliana enthused; by some miracle managing to appear cool and serene despite the warm temperatures. The bard was cloaked in the full garb of a Chantry lay sister – complete with delicate white finger gloves – and yet not a single bead of sweat rose to mar her unblemished forehead. "It is as though the Maker Himself approves of our journey today. What a blessing it is; to be able to enjoy such fine weather without fear of the Blight! Zevran, does this weather not remind you of Antiva?"

The elf, riding near the rear of their party, took longer to reply than was normal. Finally, Zevran lifted his white-blond head and returned a dazzling smile to the bard; though his eyes were still mired in thought.

"Ah, it cannot compare to my beloved Antivan sun, yet I _will _admit that it is far better than what I have come to expect from the Fereldan climate!"

"Those outcrops are known as the Teeth of Angmar," Teagan called over his shoulder to Flora, who was swivelled in the saddle to gaze at the ocean. "Legend has it, a giant named Angmar once used to come here to sharpen his teeth against the rocks."

The bann made a gesture towards the irregular basalt outcrops that punctuated the otherwise sheer and even white cliffs.

"We used to get the occasional giant in Herring," Flora replied, solemnly. "They'd wander down from the Storm Coast. They'd leave you alone, as long as you left them alone."

An odd sense of melancholy had settled in her stomach, as though she had eaten something sour and disagreeable. For a moment, Flora could not diagnose the cause of this sudden sadness; and then they passed a half-rotten tree stump that tugged at her memory.

"I came down here with Riordan," she said, suddenly. "When we went to get the Darkspawn blood for Loghain. We rode this way."

Behind her, Alistair fell silent and Flora knew that he too was picturing the same terrible image: the senior warden, broken on the cobblestones of Fort Drakon, bones pulverised and organs damaged beyond even Flora's precocious ability to mend.

"We did him proud," Alistair said quietly after a moment, gripping the reins in one experienced hand as he steered the horse around a pothole. "The… the funeral is this Sunday."

Flora twisted around in the saddle, an anxious question already forming on her lips. Alistair went to reassure her, shifting his weight forward to kiss her mouth.

"I've already organised for it to take place up at Revanloch," he murmured, watching the relief suffuse across her face. "I know you want to pay your respects, Lo."

Flora tried to smile gratefully at him, but her mind was still bloodied from the aftermath of Riordan's fatal leap. Instead, she leaned back against her brother-warden's chest and he enveloped his arm about her; pressing affectionate lips to the back of her head.

* * *

They rode onwards, following the grassy trail that surmounted the gently undulating cliffs. The seagulls cried and wheeled overhead, casting an appraising eye over the small company and deciding that they were not of interest.

Before the hour had passed – as Eamon had promised – Revanloch monastery came into view. It was perched precariously on a rocky outcrop; a formidable building constructed from grey basalt, weathered so extensively that it appeared almost as ancient as the cliffs upon which it rested. It was low and sprawling, with small windows, and was dominated by a vast central spire. The entire structure was as stern and uncompromising as the Chantry itself.

Alistair felt Flora flinch, and tightened his grip around her waist; trying to stop his own stomach from dropping.

"It looks like a prison," Finian announced in horror, succinctly voicing the thoughts of his sister. "Andraste Herself would want to jump from the cliffs if She was confined there, I think."

Fergus shot his younger brother a pointed look that said - very clearly - _shut up. _Finian did not get the message, and continued blithely.

"In Orlais, I once went to a party at a monastery named _Fleureval. _Nobles who didn't want to split their fortunes sent their second sons and daughters there."

The teyrn was about to snap at his brother, but then noticed that their sister was listening; turning round in the saddle to stare at Finian with her mouth slightly open.

"I'm afraid that the atmosphere there wasn't exactly _devout," _Finian continued, with a conspiratorial wink from his sole eye. "I remember – vaguely – some very questionable parties taking place up at _Fleureval. _With company of a most _dubious_ nature."

Flora blinked; not understanding what Finian was referring to.

"I mean, _orgies," _her brother informed her, the word carrying on the wind to the rest of the party. "Wholly _unwholesome _behaviour for men and women of the cloth!"

Alistair shot Finian an appalled look, spreading a protective palm across Flora's burgeoning stomach.

"Finian! Don't say that in front of the baby," he hissed, hazel eyes wide and accusatory. "I don't know if it's got ears yet, but if it _does, _I don't want it hearing anything… _inappropriate_."

"Then you ought to bind the elf's mouth for the next few years," Finian retorted, and Zevran let out an indignant squawk.

"The _cheek! _I said not a _thing!"_

Alistair felt Flora tremble against his chest. For one horrible moment, he thought that she was _crying, _and then she let out a muffled giggle. Seconds later, she was laughing so hard that she was slipping from the saddle. Alistair tightened his grip on her, suddenly feeling tears prickling at the corner of his eyes. He could not remember the last time that he had heard his sister-warden laugh _– it must have been weeks ago – _and now he was inordinately grateful for the sound.

* * *

The road up to Revanloch widened as they drew near, and the Chantry banners draped over the monastery gates came into clearer view. The closer they came, the more formidable the crenellated walls seemed; the entire place seemed like the architectural embodiment of a particularly severe Chantry cleric.

"How can a building seem to _scowl?"_ Zevran murmured, nudging his pony alongside Finian's. The younger Cousland gave a shrug, his remaining grey eye wide and appalled.

"I don't know, but it looks like we've got a welcoming party."

Sure enough, there was a small contingent of Templars and Chantry officials waiting outside the gates; a crowd of people clad in either cream or silverite. All were stern-faced and stiff-backed, though the Templars had removed their helms in honour of their esteemed visitors.

"How do you tell them apart?" Flora whispered to Alistair, knowing that her brother-warden had spent ten years in a monastery similar to the one looming before them.

"The taller the hat, the more important they are," he whispered back, only half-joking.

Templars and priests dropped into deep bows as the horses came to a halt, the Chantry stable-boys creeping out with far more solemnity than those residing at the palace.

Alistair dismounted first, boots crunching onto the gravel of the forecourt. Immediately, he turned and reached up for his sister-warden, lifting her down as though she were made of crystallised glass. The others also dismounted; although only Fergus, Eamon and Alistair would be accompanying Flora and Leliana into the monastery itself.

"Your Majesty," murmured the Knight-Commander, a man with a lurid burn-scar distorting the entire right side of his face. "My lady Cousland. The Templar Order of Ferelden is grateful for your actions in ending the Fifth Blight."

Alistair let out a soft grunt, barely heeding the man's words as he mentally ran over his list of demands once again. Flora wondered if she should reply with _you're welcome_, but elected to remain quiet instead; bowing her head politely.

After dismounting from his own steed, Eamon glanced briefly at Alistair; ready to step in if the new king needed any assistance. Alistair, however, was already striding forward with a determined expression, the green flecks in his eyes standing out like fragments of cut glass.

"Right," he said tersely, gaze moving from Knight-Commander to Grand Cleric. "There is a _great deal _to be discussed before I even _consider_ leaving the lady Cousland here, so I suggest we go inside and find somewhere comfortable to sit. Ideally, with refreshments."

Since only a few would be accompanying Flora inside Revanloch, she parted from the majority of her companions at the gates. Each one promised that they would come and visit their former Warden very soon, if not _tomorrow, _and whispered their own assurances into her ear.

Oghren declared that he would try and smuggle in a bottle of rum – since the monastery did not appear to be the most _convivial _of accommodations. Wynne gripped Flora's elbow between her own elegant fingers; struck by a sudden sadness that they would never again be senior enchanter and junior apprentice.

Leonas ran a brief, paternal hand over Flora's hair, his eyes soft and reassuring. Teagan attempted to emulate this fatherly demeanour but was unable to carry it out with such ease; his enduring, slightly shameful desire for the young Cousland manifesting in a half-dozen small tells.

Finian embraced his sister as heartily as he dared, squeezing her shoulders rather than her swollen waist. He promised grandly that he had planned a _surprise _for her; one that she had to be a little patient for. Flora, who had never had a surprise that she had _liked_, shot him a look of mild alarm.

Zevran also embraced Flora, drawing her close to his chest. The hug, however, was more of a ploy to bring her ear within range of his whisper.

"If you change your mind and wish me to come and free you from this prison, let me know," he hissed urgently against her hair, breath hot on her ear. "I swear it, _carina. _Say the word and I will liberate you."

"I will," replied Flora gravely, then smiled at him. "Thank you."

Expecting the usual bold kiss at the border of cheek and mouth, she was startled when the elf's lips landed softly in the centre of her forehead, tender and wistful.

"I'll see you soon, _mi florita."_

In the end, Eamon, Alistair and Fergus accompanied Flora and Leliana into the shadowy, damp coolness of the monastery interior. The inside of Revanloch was no less stark than its outer appearance suggested; segmented into small and sparsely decorated stone chambers.

The Knight-Commander showed them into his office, which had an empty hearth and a large, graphic depiction of the _Martyrdom of Andraste _hanging on the southern wall. The Grand Cleric took off her tall, ponderous headpiece and wiped some sweat from her forehead, making an offhanded comment about the summer heat.

Flora sat on the wooden bench and wondered whether a mage had given the Knight-Commander the burn scar emblazoned across his cheek. The Grand Cleric had a sonorous, undulating voice that probably sounded impressive when leading prayers in the Chantry; yet was rather grating in close quarters. Flora did her best to listen to the conversation, but the little creature drew her attention by shifting impatiently against the confines of her belly.

She rested her fingers on her stomach, stroking the firm mound absent-mindedly. Alistair glanced over, attention caught by the motion of her hand, and his face went through a cluster of small changes in rapid succession. His expression softened at first, eyes bright with affection; then quickly hardened to a steely, uncompromising resoluteness. Turning to cleric and head Templar, he cleared his throat pointedly.

"Right," the king said, cutting abrupt across the old priestess. "I'm going to set down a few ground rules; which I want you both to listen to _very carefully."_

Such was the vein of Marician steel in his voice that the Knight-Commander and the Grand Cleric of Ferelden turned immediately to their new king.

"When I leave here today," Alistair began, quietly. "I am entrusting the two most precious things in the world to me, into_ your _keeping. Oh, and Leliana- sorry, Lel."

The bard rolled her eyes with a small, _don't-worry-about-it _snort.

"So, believe me" the Theirin continued, darkly. "I won't be setting a single foot out of here until I'm reassured that my requirements have been met."

The Knight-Commander gave a slight nod, his eyes watchful.

"And these requirements are, Your Majesty?"

The immediacy with which Alistair responded suggested that he had been going over the demands many times in his head, prior to this moment.

"Lay-Sister Leliana is to accompany the lady Cousland _everywhere, _without exception, and she is permitted to carry whatever weapons she deems suitable. Royal Guardsmen will be posted at each entrance and exit to the monastery. The lady Cousland will have whatever she needs to be comfortable – warm quarters, and good food. I'll not have her served any of the bland pottage that I lived on for a decade. She's your honoured _guest, _not your prisoner."

Alistair grimaced, recalling years of draughty bedchambers and tasteless gruel. The Knight-Commander gave a small nod; none of the king's demands were unexpected.

"Is there aught else you require, King Alistair?"

"I want to meet the Templars you've assigned to watch her," Alistair replied, expression grim. "These soldiers had better be your best, ser knight."

The Knight-Commander nodded, gesturing towards a young aide discreetly waiting in the corner.

"Bring them in."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The monastery that I was envisioning when I pictured Revanloch, was the Tatev monastery in Armenia (which is on a cliff, albeit not on the coast, and quite a bit smaller.) I love stark and brutal Medieval architecture!
> 
> Haha, Alistair is not taking any chances with Flo's safety here, lol.


	5. Revanloch Monastery

Moments later, two soldiers walked into the Knight-Commander's study with a militaristic precision to their stride. Many years of hard service were writ across their faces, and their blades hung at their sides as comfortably as an extra limb. Alistair surveyed them through narrowed eyes, attempting to assess their competency through appearance alone.

Flora gazed up at the new arrivals with slight wariness. She had become familiar with many types of Templar during her four years at the Circle – the officious type, the bullying type, the type who didn't avert their eyes when standing guard in the wash-chamber. Yet there had also been kinder ones – the ones who had brought her fresh buckets of water when she was mopping the flagstones; or who didn't tell her off when she was caught creeping back from the kitchens after curfew.

The elder of the two – a man in his fifties, with a roughly cropped greying beard and eyes like chips of blue glass, gave a perfunctory bow towards the king.

"This is Knight-Captain Gannorn, your majesty," murmured the Commander, quietly. "Be assured, we have no better soldier of faith in our ranks."

Leliana gave a little flutter of recognition from where she was sitting beside Flora.

"_The _Knight-Captain Gannorn? The one who uncovered that maleficar plot in the Marches? Who single-handedly defended a group of pilgrims from Qunari mercenaries in the Rivaini desert? Who once deflected a blow meant for the _Divine Herself?"_

The man gave a stern, taciturn grunt of acknowledgement at each comment; as Leliana clasped her hands together in delight.

"Where are you from?" Alistair asked warily, wanting to gain some measure of the man.

"A village on the north coast, Your Majesty," the Templar replied in a thick, northern brogue. "By the name of Skingle."

Flora had hardly reacted to the Templar's litany of accomplishments, but at the sound of both familiar village and familiar accent, her head snapped upright.

"_Skingle!" _she squawked, enthralled. "Skingle is the next village over from Herring! That's where _I'm from! _Oh, and also Highever," she added, remembering Fergus.

"Aye, milady," the man replied, his throaty shaping of the word-sounds fundamentally similar to her own. "I left the coast decades ago, but I remember your pa. Pelegrin, eh? Believe I bought some fish hooks from the man. Good hooks, too."

As a proud Flora beamed from ear to ear, Eamon shot a quick and pointed glance towards Alistair.

_See, _the look chided. _You need not have worried. I would not have entrusted the mother of your child to simply anyone._

His fears somewhat assuaged, Alistair turned to the woman. She was in her forties, slender and hollow-cheeked, with dark hair shorn close to her skull and piercing violet eyes. Her bow was neat and perfunctory, a complement to her regimented stance.

"And you are?"

"'_All heads bow! All knees bend! Every being in the realm pay homage!'"_

Alistair let out a soft groan under his breath, shooting the Knight-Commander a dark look.

"A Chanter," he muttered, one eyebrow rising. _"Really?"_

"Ser Devotia was a Chanter before she joined the Templars," the Knight-Commander replied, placatingly. "She's never lost the – ah – _habit,_but I assure you that she is one of our most impressive soldiers."

Alistair let out a grunt, reaching out for Flora's hand and clasping it tightly within his own. His thumb ran over her knuckles, slow and tender; the affection of the gesture in stark contrast to the menace emerging in his voice.

"They had better be as skilled as you say, Knight-Commander," he murmured, a thinly veiled threat draped over the words. "I promise you, the Rite of Annulment will look like a _picnic _compared to what I'll do if a single _hair _on her head is harmed."

Flora shot her brother-warden a slightly awed look, unused to such blatant wielding of the royal hand of authority.

"I swear upon the Ashes of Andraste that the lady Cousland will come to no harm under Revanloch's roof," the Knight-Commander assured, remaining admirably calm in the face of Alistair's intimation.

As the Templar suggested that they go to see the quarters that had been assigned to Flora and Leliana; Flora almost piped up with the fact that she had seen Andraste's Ashes in person, _and that she had actually carried them in her boot for safekeeping! She had WALKED on them for nearly fifty miles!_

Leliana, who had the uncanny ability to read the words off Flora's tongue before they emerged; shot the young Cousland a pointed look and shook her head silently.

The Knight-Commander ushered them from his office and along a high-ceilinged corridor, lit at regular intervals by candle sconces set into the basalt walls. Gannorn and Devotia followed unobtrusively in their wake, stares directed rigidly forward. The atmosphere was hushed and contemplative; they passed the occasional pair of Templar, but the residents of Revanloch seemed to have learnt the ability to step silently in plate boots.

After a few minutes they emerged, blinking, into the sunlight of a courtyard surrounded by pillared terraces. A neat set of two dozen training dummies were spaced in even rows, while a stern faced instructor oversaw pairs of sparring recruits. These young Chantry initiates were clad in simple training cuirasses, and clutched basic iron swords with the ends filed blunt. They ranged in age from thirteen to eighteen, and were all male save for one belligerent-looking girl.

"Ah, memories," Alistair whispered in Flora's ear, remembering hours spent in similar training at Bournshire. "I don't miss these extended drill sessions."

As the Knight-Commander led them through the pillared gallery, several of the more curious and _less disciplined_ of the recruits craned their necks to see who the visitors were. Their eyes moved over Alistair, noting the gold band atop his head, passed over Fergus and Eamon without pause; hesitated briefly on Leliana – who was beautiful, but slightly intimidating, and clad in Chantry robes – then settled on Flora.

Although those who ran Revanloch attempted to limit all outside influences and distraction; news of the Blight had seeped through the tall basalt walls like rising damp. In addition, many of the Templar had been assigned to guard the Circle mage camp on the Alamarri plains.

Thus, many of the recruits were aware of the Warden who had summoned the armies and smote the Archdemon: a girl only a few years older than they were themselves, who had risen from obscurity to be named the first Hero of Ferelden.

They had hoarded what little information they had been able to glean from eavesdropping on senior officials conversing in corridors; they knew that she was a Cousland, that she was red headed, that she was rumoured to be the lover of the king (due to a certain tavern song that had earned one recruit three days of penance when a Chantry Mother overhead him singing it. They knew that the Hero had been a mage, but that the Maker had rewarded the young Cousland for her heroism by severing her connection with the Fade, allowing her to keep her emotions. It was also whispered that she never smiled.

Now they saw the girl herself standing beside the well-dressed peers of the realm, her dark red hair caught up on top of her head and a solemn expression writ across her face. She was smaller than they expected, and far less intimidating; let there was no mistaking the cool arrogance of a sea-grey Cousland stare as she swept it across the courtyard.

The recruits whispered to each other in excitement, nudging and gawping; ignoring the perturbed calls from their instructor.

"_Maferath's Balls, it's the Warden!"_

"_No, is it her? Really? She's not very strong-looking."_

"_Look at the hair, of course it is. That's the new king she's with."_

"_Maker, look at the mouth on her. Back home, we'd call that a - ."_

"_Mm, and those bosoms! Bit chubby, though."_

"_You idiot, Barney, she's got a babe in the belly. Wait, she's got a babe in the belly?!"_

"_Who's got his leg over the Hero of Ferelden? The king?"_

Flora had been gazing out across the courtyard in a vain attempt to locate the kitchens, not seeming to notice the gaggle of adolescent boys staring at her like she were a stuffed peacock on a dinner table. Alistair, however, _did_ notice, and a scowl spread across his handsome, olive-hewn features. The stubble on his jaw was growing in dense; he not only looked, but _felt, _far more mature than these initiates who were only a handful of years his junior.

Before he could voice his displeasure, Fergus had already spoken up. The teyrn's voice – well-bred, with only the barest hint of northern inflection – rose up in mild consternation.

"I hope you have some strategy for keeping those recruits away from my sister," he announced, bluntly. "I won't tolerate a crowd of youths trailing her around, with tongues lolling from their mouths like sun-stroked Mabari."

"They will be told," the Knight-Commander assured, gesturing them towards a low flight of stone steps that led back into the interior of the monastery. "Helpfully, they're all rather terrified of Chanter Devotia."

As they passed a life-size oil painting of _Maferath's Betrayal, _Flora thought to herself that she was _also_ slightly terrified of Chanter Devotia. The woman had said nothing to her by way of greeting, just fixed Flora with her strange, violet eyes and murmured '_now her hand is raised, a sword to pierce the sun'._

The Knight-Commander led them along a wide stone corridor, lined with stern-faced busts of previous Divines; then gestured towards a wooden side-door.

"I've assigned the lady Cousland these quarters," he explained, retrieving a large ring of keys from his waist and searching through them. "Ah, here- "

Unlocking the door, the Knight-Commander gave it a perfunctory nudge, revealing a spacious and neatly appointed chamber. Although the walls were plain plaster, decorated only with a handful of Chantry symbols; the furniture was well-made and the furnishings cut from expensive cloth. A large bay window was framed by violet curtains that hung to the flagstones, and a hearth smouldered away in one corner. A tiled wash-room was just visible, tucked away to one side.

"Lovely," announced Leliana brightly, her keen eyes taking note of a narrow pallet beside the door. This would presumably accommodate their Templar guardians as they slept on alternate shifts. "I foresee many hours of thoughtful contemplation spent in this chamber!"

The lay sister dropped her pack on one side of the bed, smoothing admiring fingers over the embroidered coverlet.

"This is the chamber we assign to Royal guests," explained the Knight-Commander, blithely. "So it should be suitable."

Flora, who had been wondering in what direction the kitchens lay, looked mildly confused.

"But I'm not- " she began, and then Leliana cut delicately and skilfully access her.

"_Ma petite, _come and look at the view! The Amaranthine Ocean is spread out before us, in all of its Maker-created glory!"

Fortunately, Flora never failed to be distracted by the sea. Abandoning her query, she went to join Leliana on the window seat.

While they occupied themselves with identifying the flags flown by the distant trade ships – Leliana had sharper eyes and a more incisive guess, while Flora just claimed that they were all from Ansberg or Kirkwall, the only Marcher cities she knew – Fergus lowered his voice and took a step closer to the Grand Cleric.

"Ideally, we want the wedding and the coronation to take place on the same day," he murmured, watching his sister rap her bitten-nailed finger on the glass to scare off a seagull. "How quickly can this public confirmation of Flora's lack of magic take place?"

The Grand Cleric lowered her voice, peering out from beneath the brim of her tall hat with clever, lined eyes.

"A letter from Divine Beatrix is already on its way from Val Royeaux," she replied, her voice soft as the whisper of crumpled leaves. "As you know, our Seekers have their connection with the Fade severed, without cost to their emotion. What's happened to your sister is not _unheard _of, though of course the circumstances are much different."

Fergus frowned, glancing quickly to one side to check that Alistair was preoccupied. The king was standing at Flora's side, listening as she embarked on some inane nautical tangent.

"Then why this month of confinement?" he asked, bluntly. "I don't see the purpose in it, if the Divine already corroborates Florence's state."

Fergus, although a teyrn, had not been playing the political game for as long as Eamon. The Arl of Redcliffe gave a slow nod, his lips tightening.

"Publicity," he said, shortly. "The Fereldan Chantry played no role in the defeat of the Fifth Blight, and the people know it. Has attendance at local chapels been in decline over the past week?"

The old woman gave a nod, confirming with her shrewd eyes what her mouth would never shape.

"And if you associate yourself with the Hero of Ferelden, you'll be able to reclaim some of those numbers," the arl continued, his own voice soft. "They'll all want to know how their lady Cousland is doing; and _you'll _be the ones with the weekly news."

Fergus scowled, discontent brewing in the depths of his blue-grey irises.

"I won't have my sister used as a pawn in your bureaucracy," he began bluntly, then lowered his voice as the three figures at the window turned to look at him. "She's not used to _any _of this: the propaganda, the _politics- "_

"Your Lordship, this way, both of us get what we want," murmured the Grand Cleric of Ferelden. "We reclaim some of our misguided sheep, and- "

"And we gain a queen, and legitimate heir," finished Eamon, quietly.

When it came time for their party to depart Revanloch – without the two redheads – Fergus drew Leliana to one corner, his grey eyes shadowed.

"You swear that you'll never leave her side?" he asked, for the third time that morning. "Even when performing ablutions? I know she might chafe at the lack of privacy- "

"Oh, Florence has never had a shred of privacy in her life," Leliana replied, the cheeriest one in the room. "This will be nothing new to her."

"And you'll ensure that she's – sufficiently defended?"

Leliana slid up the sleeve of her demure Chantry robe, just enough to reveal the glittering blade of a knife strapped neatly to her forearm.

"I have more about my person," the bard purred, with a devilish flash of white teeth. "But it would be _improper_ to show you in the company of others."

Fergus let out a bark of laughter, then accidentally caught sight of where Alistair and Flora were tangled in an enthusiastic clinch beside the window.

"Oh, Maker's Breath!" Fergus hastily averted his eyes, teeth gritted. "You know, you _are _seeing her tonight. It's not as though you're being separated for a year."

Alistair was well-aware of this but equally did not care, he was too preoccupied with his best friend's eager lips. On its men, the traditionally full Cousland mouth manifested as expressive; whereas on women, it translated as sulky. There was nothing that Alistair enjoyed more than seeing those petulant lips part, rosy and swollen, in response to the demands of his own tongue.

"Alistair," said Eamon, patiently. "Whenever you're ready. The Council is waiting for you."

Alistair thought that he would _never_ be ready to leave his beloved sister-warden. He was hoping that something would have been fundamentally flawed at Revanloch – that the room would have been unsuitable, the assigned Templars incompetent, or his lover too distressed – which would allow him to return with Flora to Denerim. Unfortunately, the room was comfortable, the Templars proficient and Flora herself had assumed a mantle of dogged stoicism.

Drawing back a fraction, Alistair gazed down at her flushed and desirous face; wanting nothing more than to pick Flora up and put her back on his saddle.

"I'll be back at sundown tonight, baby," he said finally, eyes shadowed.

"Yes," Flora replied, trying to mask her forlornness.

"And at sundown every single day, Lo."

"Mm."

He kissed her once again, hard and longing; hands dropping to cradle the rounded swell of her stomach.

"Look after our child, sweetheart."

"I will!"

Flora was about to add _I always have, _then realised that taking it into battle against the Archdemon probably did not quite constitute _looking after it._

With a final agonised glance over his shoulder, Alistair departed; following on the heels of Eamon.

There was silence for a long moment. Leliana gazed at both Gannorn and Devotia, who stared ahead with absolute neutrality of expression, flanking the doorway like suits of armour. Flora dropped her gaze to her feet, miserably; wanting nothing more than to run down the corridor after her departing brother-warden.

The bard, catching sight of the gleam of impending tears, clapped her hands together brightly.

"Right!" Leliana declared, eyes shining. "We've several hours until lunch. Shall we explore our new temporary home? I believe I saw a fish pond in one of the side-gardens."

"_Oh!" _Flora immediately perked up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I thought about having Cullen as one of the Templar guarding Flora, then thought that would be pretty unrealistic – he is only twenty years old and relatively inexperienced, and Alistair is insisting on the best of the best. Also, it would be a slightly strange dynamic considering that he still fancies Flo, so making him watch her bathe, change her clothing… it seemed a little cruel to me! I don't actually want to be mean to the poor bastard lol. Anyway, they're going to run into him pretty soon – he's at Revanloch too, waiting to be transferred to Kirkwall.
> 
> I want to show off the consequences of a hardened Alistair here – he's more confident, and he makes that veiled threat about the Rite of Annulment being less terrible than what he would do if Flora was harmed – I don't think a pre-hardened Alistair would have said that, somehow!


	6. Educating Ferelden's Queen

Bard and Cousland spent several hours exploring the confines of the Revanloch monastery; which sprawled for a decaying acre atop the cliffs. Leliana was horrified at the sheer _ugliness _of a building supposedly devoted to the Maker. The basalt walls loomed menacingly overhead, casting a shadow over the inner courtyards; the archways and terraces were crumbling away through sheer decrepitude.

The interior was no less sombre than the exterior, a warren of passages and chambers cast in perpetual gloom by the narrow, shuttered windows. Candles burnt from every surface, though they made little headway against the darkness. There was a great chapel large enough to house two hundred, dominated by a vast and unforgiving effigy of Andraste. Several libraries and reading rooms branched off another corridor, near the Knight-Commander's quarters. A dining room, austere and without decoration, was located in a separate wing.

As they wandered about, Leliana reminisced in unsubtle tones about the Grand Chantry in Val Royeaux. She enthused fondly on its peach-marbled walls, gilded ornamentation and floors intricately tiled with onyx and ivory mosaic. There had always been singing drifting lightly on the air, and each perfumed chamber carried a different scent of floral incense.

_Not this heavy, throat-clogging stink! _the bard whispered derisively in Flora's ear, turning her nose up at the pungent, waxy odour wafting from oil burners fixed on the walls. _The Maker does NOT look on this hideous building and smile, I know it!_

Strangely, Flora felt far more at ease in this austere heart of the Fereldan Templar Order. The stark ugliness of the basalt rock reminded her of Herring, as did the gloomy, cramped chambers. The missing tiles in the roof meant that she could hear the constant cawing of the seagulls overhead, along with the occasional waft of salt-edged breeze. The highest ramparts of the monastery provided an unparalleled view of the Amaranthine Ocean; far better than any that could be gleaned from the Royal Palace.

_I think I'll be alright here, _Flora told herself, as they approached the dining hall for lunch. _Everybody watches me, but everyone has had their eyes on me for months anyway. Years, going back to the Circle._

Even the stern, constant presence of Gannorn and Devotia had not disconcerted her. The two Templars had followed them around at a short distance all morning, without initiating a single dialogue. Leliana had attempted to begin several conversations with the Knight-Captain, only to receive monosyllabic grunts in response.

To Flora's alarm, once they entered the dining hall, they were ushered to the top table. Rows of wide-eyed recruits followed their progress to the raised platform at the front of the hall, where Flora took a tentative seat beside the Knight-Commander.

"Can't we eat in our room?" she hissed in Leliana's ear, self-conscious at the stares of nearly two hundred gawping adolescents. "Everyone's looking at us."

"No," replied Leliana sternly, spreading her napkin over her thighs. "You should be used to this from dining at South Reach!"

"That wasn't _this _many people! There must be at least…"

Flora trailed off; her literacy and numeracy practice had been neglected in recent weeks, and she had no idea how many recruits were crowded on the benches before her.

"At least… a lot," she said inanely, taking a gloomy sip of water.

"Ah, but you must get used to this, _ma petite," _Leliana replied, slightly enigmatically. "Being in the public eye."

Before Flora could ask Leliana what she meant, she felt her stomach give a low roll of discontent. In alarm, she looked up to see platters of meat being carried out by young initiates: whole roasted pigs skewered on iron rods. Their flesh was blackened and apples had been wedged into their gaping mouths.

Immediately, Flora felt her belly curdle as the little creature lodged within objected violently to the smell of the meat. She had rather naively assumed that the top table would be served the same vegetable stew as the masses below.

The pig was placed on the table, and looked sadly up at Flora, its glassy eyes meeting her own. Flora stared back at it; and for a moment she saw the corpse of a human soldier charred by a Darkspawn necromancer's flame.

Taking a deep breath she picked up her fork, and then hastily put it down again as a Chantry sister rose to her feet and cleared her throat.

"_O Maker, this meal is a symbol of Your enduring love for us; bless us and bless our homeland; preserve us so that we may glorify You, now and forever."_

The Chantry sister continued in similar vein for the next fifteen minutes, while Leliana smiled and nodded. The sad-faced, cooling pig congealed before Flora; she slunk down an inch in her seat and tried not to vomit across the table.

_Why don't you like meat? Every true Fereldan likes meat. I'm Fereldan, and your papa is Fereldan._

_If you ever turn against fish, little creature, we're going to have a real problem._

Finally, the Chantry sister sat down and there followed a period of murmuring as the initiates tucked into their vegetable stew.

Leliana used her knife – the _table _knife, not the blade secreted up her sleeve – to expertly carve into the pig's flank. Flora watched the bard fork several pieces of meat onto her plate, then glance sideways.

"_Ma petite, _why are you not eating?"

Flora made a face, and understanding dawned on the bard's finely hewn features. Leliana leaned forward and made a swift gesture to one of the servants. A quick exchange of words later, and a bowl of tepid vegetable stew was placed on the table.

Flora beamed at Leliana, and was surprised to see a frown contorting the Orlesian lay-sister's creamy forehead.

"What did I do?" Flora asked, anxiously. "I'm sorry- "

The bard reached out and put a finger on Flora's lips, her expression stern.

"_Don't _apologise! You must stop apologising for everything, Florence, like some pandering sycophant."

"Pan- _panda- sick panda-"_

Leliana continued, her eyes bright and earnest.

"And you mustn't just _sit _there if something is not to your liking. You must speak out, and ask for it to be changed!"

Flora blinked, the spoon motionless in her hand.

"Oh, you're trying to make me _authoritative_!" she said, in eventual realisation. "Aren't you? You're trying to make me into a proper Cousland."

"Not just a Cousland, _ma crevette," _murmured the bard, deftly carving the pork slice in two. "Now, try not to speak with your mouth full, _s'il vous plait!"_

"I don't do that, do I?"

"_You're doing it right now!"_

* * *

After lunch, Leliana took Flora into the Templar library, which – impossibly – had an even more funereal atmosphere than the rest of Revanloch. It was a quiet, hallowed hall, lit by great stained glass windows depicting scenes from the life of Andraste. The walls were lined with bookshelves, with more valuable contents protected by gilded cages. The entire space was lit by hanging candelabras, suspended spiked iron wheels that seemed more torture device than source of illumination.

Various young recruits were tucked into study carrels, pouring over texts with varying degrees of diligence. Many of them had positioned themselves on wooden benches that provided a direct eye-line to where the lay-sister and the lady Cousland were sitting.

At first Flora had chosen a reading table at random, then realised that it was located beneath the gold and crimson glass depiction of Andraste's martyrdom. With trepidation, she raised her eyes to view a mournful, eight-foot tall prophetess being burned on a Tevinter pyre, directly above their heads. The sacrifice of Andraste had always terrified the younger Flora – especially when combined with the knowledge that apostate mages had been burned by angry villagers in the past.

Before Leliana could sit, Flora had shot upright as quickly as her belly allowed. She moved several desks over, relocating to a table beneath a far more harmless depiction of Andraste and Maferath getting their marriage blessed. Knight-Captain Gannorn and Chanter Devotia followed silently, unobtrusive as shadows.

The recruit sitting on the opposite side of the table – a ginger boy of perhaps sixteen – immediately pinkened and buried himself in his work, occasionally daring to dart little glances above the textbook.

Flora, reminded of when Alistair had been a similar recruit, smiled kindly at him. This only made the boy flush a deeper shade of crimson, clashing with his auburn curls.

"Right," Leliana breathed, settling on the bench beside Flora and rummaging in a leather satchel. "Happy with this seat?"

Flora nodded, resting an absent-minded hand on her stomach as the little creature rotated itself within her.

"Mm. Are we reading or writing?"

"Neither."

Leliana pulled out a sheaf of codex cards, crafted from thick vellum. Each one had an ornately calligraphed title, a sketched illustration and a small paragraph scribed near the bottom. Flora frowned at them in slight confusion; they looked more like playing cards than academic materials.

"I don't think I can read that writing," she said, doubtfully eyeing the ornately inked text. "It's a bit… _swirly."_

"The purpose is not for you to memorise the names, _cherie," _murmured Leliana, retrieving a folded square of parchment from the inside of her robe.

To Flora's surprise, this final item turned out to be a map, which Leliana proceeded to spread out across the desk.

It was a map unfamiliar to Flora, who had only ever seen a cartographer's depiction of Ferelden. She could recognise an outline which appeared to be _similar _to Ferelden, but it was smaller and tucked away to the south east. Other outlines crowded to the west and north, dotted with small and barely legible labels.

"Oh," said Flora, in sudden realisation. "Is this _Thedas?"_

When Leliana nodded, Flora gazed down at the map in fascination. She recognised certain place names – _Waking Sea, Highever, Denerim _– based on the shape of the words, but the vast majority were unfamiliar. She touched a finger to Highever, then slid it west to the cove where Herring lay.

"Alright, Florence – are you watching? I know you have a sound memory, and you must memorise this."

Leliana pointed to each crooked outline on the map in turn, her slender finger moving with slow purpose as she recited the country names.

"The Anderfels – Tevinter – Nevarra – Orlais – Ferelden- "

"FERELDEN!_"_

"Yes, indeed, Ferelden. The Free Marches – Antiva – Rivain. Can you point them out to me?"

Flora did as the bard requested, moving her finger from country to country.

"The Anderfels – Tevinter – Nevarra– Orlais."

She broke off, gazing with fascination at this oldest enemy of Ferelden. It sprawled out lazily across the south-western portion of the map, like a dozing lion.

"That's where you're from. Where's Vally-roo?"

"_Val Royeaux_. Here, just by the lake, see? Keep going."

"Ferelden – Free Marches – Antiva… oh! Zevran is from here. Is the climate better because it's further north? He always talks about the _Antivan sun."_

Leliana gave a little shrug, shifting her position on the wooden bench.

"I'm not sure. Parts of Antiva are very arid, and Rivain – just to the north – is all desert. So, possibly?"

Flora fell into melancholy silence, thinking on her old commander. Duncan had Rivaini parentage; evident in his rich ochre skin and coal-black eyes, as well as the golden ring looped through one ear.

"Show me one more time that you know where each country is, _ma crevette."_

After Flora had complied, Leliana reached for the sheaf of codex cards. With meticulous care, the bard proceeded to arrange them across the map of Thedas. Each card was inked with an illustration of an imperious looking face, either male or female; many of them clad in some sort of regal headpiece.

Flora recognised the face on the card set within Ferelden, feeling a twinge of sadness in her gut. She did not need to decipher the title to work out who this individual was: she recognised both the eager, enthusiastic stare and the characteristic Theirin jawline.

"This is King Cailan," she said softly, and Leliana gave a small nod.

"_Oui, _these cards are a little out of date – although still accurate, for the most part. They show the current ruling monarch for each country in Thedas. Let me show you."

Over the next few hours, Leliana meticulously introduced Flora to the great ruling houses of Thedas, and the countries under their domain. Flora recognised only one, Empress Celene of House Valmont; who had been the subject of some incriminating letters that they had discovered at Ostagar. Other dynasties – such as the Pentaghasts of Nevarra – were entirely unfamiliar to her.

Still, Flora listened dutifully to Leliana as the bard elaborated in hushed, purposeful tones, and did her best to memorise the flood of new information the best she could. To compensate for her illiteracy, Flora had developed an excellent memory, which she deployed now to assist her.

After Flora had correctly named the leading families of the Free Marches – from Aurum to Vael – Leliana decided that enough was enough for one day. Flora helped her to gather up the cards, a slight frown creasing her forehead.

"Thank you for the information," she said, earnestly. "But why am I learning about all the important families of Thedas?"

Leliana shot her a quick, darting glance; then flashed a similarly evasive smile.

"Because the world is far larger than what you know, Flora of Herring," the bard murmured, skilfully avoiding a direct answer. "And it's important that you learn about it. Who knows who you'll be meeting in the future?"

"Well, I hope someone with a nice, _easy _name," Flora said, gravely. "Like _Vael. _Not Pin- Pant- Pant-gust. PANTY GHOST."

"_Pentaghast!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: OK, this is pure headcanon but I always envisioned Orlesian and Fereldan Chantries looking quite different. Orlais has a lot more money, and their Chantries reflect that – very gilded, ornate and decorative, with lots of marble and beautiful sculpture. Ferelden, being poorer, more rough and ready, has a more stark, stone and iron look to their Chantry interiors; a more natural appearance. In my head, anyway!
> 
> I think it's probably a good thing that Flora isn't able to have dreams any more – I do think that she would have suffered from some pretty bad nightmares, considering what she's been through. I don't know enough about PTSD to write about it in a story – it's a hugely difficult topic, and I wouldn't do it justice – but I thought I would just touch on it with Flora unable to stop herself from envisioning the pig as a soldier killed by the Darkspawn.
> 
> Oooooh, what could Leliana possibly be preparing Flora for? Well it's obvious, lol, considering the chapter title. Flora still doesn't have a clue, haha


	7. A Surprise For Lieutenant Rutherford

After dinner, Flora and Leliana were sitting up on the high ramparts overlooking the ocean. At their backs, the sun was inching itself towards the Bannorn, leaving the sky in a blended smear of pastel hues. The deep glass-green of Amaranthine was desaturated by the lowering light, the horizon melding with the distant water until it was not clear where sea ended and sky began.

Leliana had her nose buried deep in a song-book; the evening service would begin in an hour, and she did not want a single erroneous word to emerge from her lips. Flora was resting her chin in her arms on the ramparts, gazing thoughtfully out at the unbroken expanse of water. There was a small flotilla of Marcher trade ships taking advantage of a westerly wind, and she squinted to see their flags.

"That's Kirkwall," she said with reasonable confidence, more to herself then anyone else. "The one with the red flag. Kirkwall's opposite Herring. I don't know what the others are."

Leliana gave a little shrug, immersed in her text.

"The navy banner on the end is Ansberg," came a gruff, northern voice from behind them. "The chequered one belongs to Ostwick."

It was the Templar Gannorn who had spoken; his eyes still sharp despite the iron-grey of his beard and close-cropped hair.

"Ansberg," breathed Flora, the name sparking recognition in her memory. "Oh, that's where Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan were raised! They have good horses there."

"Yes, their _Margravane _is well-known for possessing the best stables in Thedas," Leliana added, eyes still fixed on her prayer book.

Just then, there came the sound of hurried footsteps ascending the rampart stair; the distinctive thud of a man taking them two at a time. Instinctively, the Templars both turned around to face the steps, and Leliana's gaze lifted from her prayer-book, fingers sliding imperceptibly towards her dagger-concealing sleeve.

Flora, however, had other ways of recognising her former brother-warden's approach, despite them no longer sharing the connection of tainted blood. She knew the sound of his tread intimately; could identify his footfall from a crowd just by the sound of his boot striking the ground.

Sure enough, Alistair soon burst onto the monastery ramparts; face flushed and with the golden band of kingship lopsided on his head. His eyes swept the basalt walkway, focusing immediately on Flora as she beamed at him, visibly delighted. Immediately, relief crashed across the king's face, and he raised his arms as he strode across the flagstones.

"Sweetheart."

Flora scuttled, crab-like, across the ramparts and Alistair folded her into his arms, exhaling unsteadily.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Flora replied, as he drew back just far enough to look her up and down, anxiously. "How are you?"

"My brain feels like it's leaking out of my ears after sitting in a room with eight other men all day, but apart from that, I'm fine too. I've missed you."

Flora gave a little grimace of sympathy, reaching up to touch the dark shadows beneath her best friend's eyes.

"Poor Alistair," she whispered, thinking _in some ways, you're as trapped as I am now. _"You look tired."

Alistair smiled down at her, cupping the back of Flora's head and rubbing a thumb over her ear.

"I feel like I'm awake for the first time all afternoon, being with you. Hello, Lel - how's it been?"

Leliana smiled, waving at him over her prayer-book.

"How refreshing, to be so _immersed _in the Maker's bosom! I feel my faith revitalised, even during the few brief hours of our residence here at Revanloch."

In the distance, a great bell began to swing back and forth on its hinges, sending out an imperious summons into the dusk. Alistair continue to stare at the bard expectantly, and Leliana relented.

"And, of course, everything has been fine. Florence and I have spent the afternoon in the library, pouring over the great dynasties of Ferelden."

"Valmont, Pen- _Pen_taghast, Valisti, Vael," Flora repeated, dutifully. "Why do so many of them start with _vuh?"_

Both Alistair and Leliana waited – with baited breath - for her to augment the question with, _and why do I have to learn about them?_

But Flora had launched herself on a tangent, trying to remember how to spell _Celene._

"S-A-L-I-N-E-"

"Not quite, _ma petite. Ah_, it is almost time for _Complines."_

Alistair grinned, and suddenly seemed a Templar initiate of fifteen again, instinctively turning his head towards the clarion call of the bells.

"Maker, it's just like the old days," he breathed, peering down into the inner courtyard to watch columns of young recruits streaming towards the main chapel. "I still remember all the prayers. Come on baby, Eamon said we should show our faces."

* * *

The main chapel of Revanloch was high-ceilinged and commanding; with flying stone buttresses and a massive stained glass window depicting the prophesied return of the Maker. The effigy of Andraste reared up at the altar like a particularly stern schoolmistress, the eternal flame blazing away in a sculpted iron brazier.

The entire populace of Revanloch had piled into the Chantry for _Complines _prayers; from the lowliest kitchen-servant to the Knight-Commander himself. The initiates were crowded on cramped wooden benches in the back, all craning their necks to see towards the Royal pew. This separate stall had been reserved for the rare occasion when a Theirin would grace the Templar monastery with his presence. This had happened from time to time with Maric; never with Cailan.

The Royal stall, however, was not particularly comfortable – especially considering that it had to house the Knight-Commander, Leliana, Flora and her two Templars, and Alistair with _his _four Royal Guard escort. Two more Royal Guard had been relegated to the back benches, sitting uncomfortably amongst a horde of snickering adolescents.

The Chantry Mother began the service with the traditional incantation; which called upon those present to prostrate themselves _wholly_ to the Maker. The congregation were expected to kneel, with exception being granted to those too ill, aged, or otherwise unable to descend to their knees.

Flora duly sunk downwards, gazing assiduously at the flagstones. Her weak knee gave a twinge of pain and she scowled, internally willing it to _behave. _Alistair narrowed his eyes sideways at her, mouthing something that she couldn't quite decipher.

"_You don't have to kneel," _he whispered, trying not to be heard above the Chantry Mother's sonorous tones.

He then said something that was drowned out by the general murmuring of the congregation. Flora blinked, unsure if she had heard him correctly.

"'_You're too fat'?" _she repeated, indignantly. "FAT?"

Alistair gaped at her for a second, then shook his head vehemently.

"No!" he replied, wide-eyed; his response muffled by the congregation as they rose to their feet. "I said: '_you can stand'."_

The king looked affronted as he reached down to help haul his pregnant mistress to her feet.

"I'd _never _call you fat, Lo," he whispered indignantly in her ear as the Chantry Mother held out her arms, raising a beatific stare to the heavens. "Not in this Age, or the next. You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

Leliana narrowed her eyes at both of them, managing to glower pointedly without moving her head. The Chantry Mother then turned her arms towards the vast effigy of Andraste, her heavy cream sleeves hanging down like wings.

"_O, Maker's Bride!" _she entreated, voice echoing to the vaulted ceiling. _"As we prepare to read Your words, help us to decipher their true meaning so that we might serve You better!"_

She turned around with hands outstretched expectantly, waiting to receive the _Chant of Light, _from which the reading would be taken.

A Templar emerged from a side passage, carrying the heavy tome reverently on an intricately-carved presentation board. Aware that the eyes of the congregation were on him, the young Templar raised his curly blond head and strode with militaristic precision towards the altar.

As Lieutenant Rutherford approached the Chantry Mother, his attention was diverted by the gathering of unusual guests in the front pew. Glancing sideways, he caught sight of a pair of pale grey, Mabari-hound eyes: meeting his like lightning arcing through a summer storm. As she recognised him, the girl with the storm-coloured eyes smiled; the wide mouth that he had dreamt about for so many months curving upwards.

The young lieutenant dropped both tray and tome, the heavy leather-bound book falling to the flagstones with an echoing thud that could have roused the Maker Himself. The initiates in the back rows snickered, nudging each other as the Chantry Mother hissed like an albino bat. Flora, who had not expected her smile of greeting to go so awry, looked anxious.

Now a luminous shade of scarlet, Cullen Rutherford scrambled to pick up the Chant of Light, fumbling to return the book to its correct place on the tray. He presented it with head bowed to the Chantry Mother, rigid with contrition. She took it with a snort of disgust, silencing the giggling initiates with a sweep of her scathing glare.

"He's still infatuated with her, then," murmured Leliana, fondly. "Ah, the first tender follies of the heart can be enduring."

Alistair searched his memory, placing the blond Templar as the one who had been assigned to guard Connor during their stay at South Reach. He also recalled the lieutenant helpless in a desire demon's clutches in Kinloch Hold; and how Cullen had confessed a secret and hopeless passion for a certain young red-headed apprentice, who kept being expelled from class to clean the corridors. The lieutenant had known that Flora frequently broke curfew to sneak down to the kitchens, _and _that she used to regularly climb up onto the Tower roof, and had not reported either misdemeanour to his seniors.

Cullen, retreating to stand beside the brazier, darted another glance at the Royal stall. His stare moved discretely from the swollen-stomached Flora, to Alistair standing tall and crowned at her side. On the last occasion that they had parted, Cullen had rode back beneath the South Reach portcullis in a clatter of hoof-beats, dismounted haphazardly, and pressed an impulsive kiss to a gawping Flora's mouth. The young lieutenant had been convinced that he would never see this object of his youthful desire again; hence such uncharacteristic boldness.

Now, to Cullen's mild horror, Flora – or _the Hero of Ferelden _as she was now known – was standing before him, alive and healthy. He knew that she had killed the Archdemon, and had been told that her connection with the Fade had been severed. He had also heard the rumours that she was carrying the Theirin's child; gossip which was now quite obviously confirmed.

Alistair narrowed his eyes. Leliana made a rare error of judgement, patting him on the elbow.

"You don't need to be jealous of young Lieutenant Rutherford, Alistair," she whispered, reassuringly. "He wouldn't make advances on land already claimed by the _king."_

"No, no- "Alistair replied under his breath, his reply partly drowned out by some enthusiastic preaching from the Chantry Mother. "That doesn't bother me – Maker knows I'm used to people lusting after Flo – but wouldn't this Rutherford make a good guard for her while she's here? If he cares for Flora, he'd never let a shred of harm come to her."

Meanwhile, Flora knew full well that she owed Cullen both for his discretion at the Circle, and for his instruction in how to resist a silencing spell. The latter had saved her life during an attack by a Darkspawn necromancer, and she had never had a chance to thank him properly. She tried to catch his eye, but Cullen was now gazing fixedly at the vast, stern face of Andraste, his cheeks still pink.

The Chantry Mother finished her reading and made the gesture for a hymn, clearing her throat as she prepared to launch into the opening verse.

"Alistair, that would be tantamount to _cruelty," _Leliana retorted, turning her hymn book to the correct page. "You can't make the boy watch the object of his desire sleeping, undressing, _washing herself in the bath._ How is he ever supposed to overcome his longing if you _flaunt _her before him?"

Alistair grunted, reluctantly admitting that the bard had a point. The opening bars of the hymn rang out, and he duly joined in with Leliana's soaring soprano vocals.

Flora listened to her former brother-warden's rich, clear baritone and admired how well it melded with their bard's crystalline tones. She knew that nobody wanted to hear her frog-croak of a singing voice, and so opened and closed her mouth at random intervals, unable to decipher the words of the prayer book fast enough to mime correctly.

She was relieved when the hymn came to an end and the congregation sat. Her lower back was aching where the child put pressure on it, and her feet also had a tendency of swelling up in her boots when she stood still for too long.

The Chantry Mother advanced once more to the pulpit, her eyes burning with sacred fervour.

"Before we adjourn with a closing prayer," she began, clasping her hands so that her sleeves hung down like cream-coloured altar-cloths. "We must thank the Maker for His _superlative_ generosity, with regard to our own dear Hero of Ferelden."

Still not used to the title, it took Flora a moment to realise that the priestess was talking about _her. _She looked up with mild trepidation, feeling Alistair stiffen against her arm.

"The lady Cousland once suffered from the terrible affliction of _magic, _constantly at risk from the malevolent forces of the Fade. As reward for her great service to our nation, the Maker purified the lady and purged her of this… _abnormality. _Let us all give thanks for His benevolence!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Aaah, poor Flo! Hearing her beloved, now departed spirits referred to as an affliction.


	8. Memories of the Peraquialus

The Chantry Mother continued in similar vein for the next ten minutes, exalting the great generosity of the Maker for purging the _contamination _of magic from their Hero of Ferelden. Flora listened in silent horror as her beloved spirits – her _Silver Knight and Golden Lady, _who had sacrificed their own ancient existence to preserve their mortal ally – were described as a disease to be cured, an abnormality to be surgically removed.

If Flora had been raised at Highever, she would have raised her voice in indignation; interrupted the Chantry Mother with a loud and vocal objection, secure in the knowledge that she was a _Cousland _and therefore impervious to repercussion from squawking clerics.

Yet Flora had spent her childhood in Herring, where she had been expected to bite her tongue and defer to her elders. So, instead of protesting at the cleric's misguided sermon, she bowed her head and tried – in vain - not to sniffle. Tears began to run down her cheeks in silent, continuous streams, and she bit down on her lip to stifle a sob before it could emerge.

Alistair glanced sideways at the odd noise, eyes widening as he took in Flora's wet cheeks and damp lashes. Reaching out, he anchored her hand tightly in his, clasping their fingers together in the old _fish-rope _ritual.

"Sweetheart," he whispered, wishing fervently that he could embrace her. "My darling."

The service ended after the thanksgiving prayer; rows of relieved initiates filing out to retire to their dormitories for the night. The Chantry Mother disappeared with the Knight-Commander in a waft of cream linen and imported incense, with a gaggle of sisters following in her wake like geese.

Now that the vast majority of the congregation had departed, Flora let loose the plaintive wail that she had been struggling to suppress. Alistair drew her against his chest as she huddled on the bench beside him, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and murmuring in her ear. The Royal Guard and Flora's Templar guardians stood to one side, slightly awkwardly.

"My spirits weren't like _a disease,__" _Flora protested tearfully, as Alistair nodded and murmured soothing placation. "They've saved more people than… than I can count. They've saved _your _life."

"On many occasions, my love."

"They saved _Ferelden. _I couldn't have killed the Archdemon without them."

"I know, baby."

"And they've _gone! _They've _left _me."

"I know." Alistair kissed the side of her furrowed forehead, using his thumb to brush the tears from her lower lashes. "I know, my darling. They don't understand, you _know _how the Chantry is."

Flora sniffed, accepting a square of perfumed silk from Leliana and mopping at her eyes and nose.

"I wish I were still a mage," she whispered, glumly. "I was _useful _as a mage. I healed people. I cured the taint. I could've helped Ferelden recover!"

"You still can, love," Alistair said thickly, hating the sight of his best friend and lover so distressed.

"_How?!"_

Alistair shot a quick glance at Leliana, who shook her head a fraction. _She's not ready for you to propose, _the bard's blue stare whispered. _She's still grieving the loss of her spirits._

"Well, by helping me with this… _being king," _Alistair said instead, bringing Flora's fingers to his mouth and kissing her bitten nails. "It helps me to understand things better when I explain them to you. In fact, can we go over what the Council discussed today? I want to hear your thoughts on the refugee situation."

Flora wasn't sure how valuable her contribution would be, but sniffled her acquiescence; after all, she did always want to help. Alistair drew her face up to his and kissed her on the mouth, heedless of their sacred surroundings and assorted observers.

There was one unsanctioned onlooker who was still hovering awkwardly near the pew, gloved hands tucked behind his back. He had waited patiently, shifting from one foot to another, as the Theirin comforted his pregnant mistress.

"Lieutenant Rutherford," Leliana said, a catlike smile in her tone as she rose to her feet. "My, it's been a while since we saw each other at South Reach."

Cullen nodded, swallowing his nerves as he bowed before the king and the girl who had risen from commoner, to teyrn's daughter, to _Hero of Ferelden _in the time that he had known her.

"Your Majesty; Flor- _Lady Cousland," _the young lieutenant corrected quickly, raising his face to hers. "May I have permission to… say a few words?"

"Lieutenant Rutherford," replied Flora, wiping her nose unceremoniously on her sleeve. "I asked you at South Reach to call me _Flora."_

"But- "

"You've known me since I was _fifteen," _Flora continued, patiently. "You've seen me dressed as a lemon for a Satinalia ball. You don't have to call me Lady-anything."

Cullen opened his mouth to protest, then his face contorted oddly as he realised that he was about to try and argue with the _Hero of Ferelden; _which seemed distinctly worse than just calling her by her preferred name.

"Flora," he said eventually, coughing to hide his embarrassment and gazing up at the moonlight filtering through the stained glass window. "I just wanted to congratulate – _thank _you for your bravery in killing the Archdemon and ending the Fifth Blight."

Flora smiled up at him, still slightly damp-eyed.

_I made a promise to Duncan, in the Korcari Wilds. I kept it._

"You're welcome," she said inanely, for want of anything else to say.

Cullen glanced behind him, then lowered his voice and took a step forward. Heedless of the stares of Knight-Captain Gannorn and Chanter Devotia; when he spoke, the words emerged low and sincere.

"And… I'm sorry for the loss of your magic," the young Templar said, quietly. "You had a great – a _great_ gift. I still remember that ship you created for the Guerrin lad. It was the most beautiful thing I ever saw."

Flora swallowed, remembering how she had summoned a simulacrum of the _Peraquialus _in the courtyard of South Reach. It had been misting a fine drizzle, the real stars veiled by cloud; yet the cobbles had gleamed like they were cast from gold, reflecting the light from her counterfeit constellation.

"Thank you," she said, touched that this embodiment of the Chantry had dared to voice sympathy for the loss of her spirits. "I appreciate it. I hope I can visit Connor soon. How is he?"

"Doing well, my la- _Flora. _He's enjoying his studies, and the company of other children."

Flora smiled, suddenly feeling tears of a different sort prickling at the corners of her eyes. Seeing the Templar looking alarmed, she hastened to explain.

"Sorry. I'm not sad, it's… _this." _She pointed vaguely in the direction of her stomach. "It puts my body all out of balance."

Cullen glanced down at her protruding belly, then across at Alistair, then back at Flora.

"Congratulations, Your Majesty," he said dutifully, and Alistair seemed to swell an inch with pride.

"Thank you."

The young lieutenant made his excuses, stating that he had to supervise the younger recruits in the dormitories. As Cullen disappeared down a discreet side-passage, Alistair reached out to grip Flora's hand; squeezing her fingers affectionately between his.

"Let's go back up to your chamber."

* * *

A pair of Tranquil servants had been assigned to attend Flora in her quarters. Seeing Flora quail at the thought of being waited on, Alistair dismissed them both and built up the fire himself; having had months of practice while travelling around Ferelden.

Leliana perched herself at the writing desk in the corner, scribing the first of many letters that she intended to send during the month's confinement. This particular one was to Wynne, who was planning to visit the monastery before the week was out.

Alistair's Royal Guard were stationed in the corridor outside, glowering at passers-by though the thin slits in their closed-face helmets. Within the chamber itself, the two Templar conversed briefly before reaching agreement.

Knight-Captain Gannorn quickly and efficiently removed the outer layers of his armour, revealing a thin set of linens beneath. Without ceremony, he lowered himself to the pallet beside the door and closed his eyes. Chantry Devotia, who was apparently on the first shift of night watch, continued to stare impassively across the chamber.

Alistair and Flora sat together on the bed, he propped up against the cushions and she with her legs resting over his lap. Their boots stood neatly side-by-side on the flagstones, so not to mark the clean linen bedding.

Alistair was recanting the events discussed in the council meeting, while rubbing the day's stiffness from Flora's knee with expert thumbs, the leather strapping curled on the mattress. He had the notes he had taken during the meeting to one side for reference; glancing down at them on occasion to check certain points. Going through the items discussed – and simplifying the material so that someone with Flora's lack of political acumen could comprehend – helped to consolidate them within Alistair's head; aiding his own understanding.

Flora asked the occasional question for clarification; her brow furrowed in concentration as she tried to keep track of Ferelden's intricate statecraft.

"The frustrating thing is, baby, the Blight is _over," _Alistair said, grimacing as he reached for the leather strapping. "Yet the refugee ships keep leaving. How are we supposed to rebuild our country if half our population has fled to the Marches?"

He let out a short sigh, tying the strap around her knee with a quickness borne of long practice.

Flora, who had been down to the docks on several occasions to offer her services as a healer, remembered the miasma of bitterness and despair that rose from the huddled masses as they squabbled to earn a place on one of the departing ships.

"A lot of them are from Gwaren and Lothering," she said, recalling fragments that she had picked up from the queue of people waiting to be mended. "They have nothing to go back _to. _The land is poisoned."

Alistair gave a nod of acknowledgement, his fingers resting idly on her knee.

"I know, love. Wynne seems to think that the land _will _recover, based on previous Blights. But, it'll take years."

Flora gave a little frown of sympathy. Alistair, who did not want to overburden his sister-warden too much whilst she was dealing with the loss of her spirits, flashed a smile and leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek.

"Anyway, darling, have you thought any more about your feast? The armies have had their celebrations now, as have the nobility – soon, it'll be _your _turn."

Flora blinked: she had almost forgotten about the only boon that she had requested on ending the Blight successfully.

_I don't want a parade, _she had said, half-joking, months ago. _I don't want a big party. I want a FEAST._

"Is that _actually_ going to happen then?" she asked, wide-eyed, and Alistair smiled at her.

"Of course, Lo! The Knight-Commander has already given permission for you to visit Denerim to attend, under escort. The castle chef is coming here to discuss your ideas, so start thinking about how many _courses _you can fit in that stomach, my love."

Flora bit absent-mindedly at her thumb-nail, brow furrowed. In the background, Leliana's quill scratched away at the parchment; the bard utterly absorbed in her own missive.

"Huh!"

Alistair pressed his lips to his sister-warden's ear, inhaling the familiar scent of her tangled, dark red mass of hair. She instinctively leaned into the kiss, tilting her head back against his shoulder.

The king's fingers, resting on his lover's strapped knee, inched upwards towards her thigh. Flora tended to favour knee-length tunics with boots and bare legs; especially in this summery eastern climate, where she found herself overheating rapidly. Alistair, on the other hand, simply favoured any outfit of Flora's that allowed him to gaze at her legs unimpeded.

Flora watched the progress of his hand with mild fascination, wondering when propriety would overcome desire. Alistair inhaled unsteadily as his fingers brushed the bare skin beneath the woollen hem of her tunic, then withdrew his hand with great reluctance.

"Give me a hug," he murmured in Flora's ear, glancing towards the stern face of Chanter Devotia. "Nothing improper about that."

The Templar was murmuring quietly to herself, eyes closed, clearly in the middle of some obscure incantation. Leliana was still scribbling furiously away at her letter to Wynne, facing towards the hearth to gain the best light.

Alistair leaned back against the headboard, holding out his arms expectantly. Flora eyed her brother-warden dubiously, but allowed him to manoeuvre her onto his lap; a shift in position made more awkward by her swollen stomach. Once she was settled on his thighs, he reached out to clasp his hands around the small of her back, thumbs kneading instinctively into the sore muscles.

"You're unique, Flora of Herring," he murmured, as she went as pink as the lieutenant from the Chantry. "It's no wonder that Rutherford chap is still infatuated."

"Actually," Flora informed him, solemnly. "There's another Flora who lives in the village, it's quite a common name up north. So there's two _Flora of Herrings_."

Alistair leaned forward, resting his chin gently on her shoulder. When he replied, his lips brushed slow and deliberate against her ear.

"But no one like_ you,_ my love."

Flora felt his breath hot against her skin, and was suddenly very conscious of her position straddling his thighs. When he kissed her, council notes discarded to one side on the blankets, she could taste the desire tart and longing on his lips. Against her better judgement, she let her former brother-warden's tongue gain entry to her mouth; where he proceeded to steal the air from her lungs within moments.

As they kissed with the slow, languid ease of familiarity and long practice, Alistair's fingers caressed her throat, tracing an arc over her throbbing pulse. His thumb moved down to stroke along her collarbone, edging aside the woollen neckline. Relying on her upper body to shield his actions, he reached discretely for the neatly tied bow keeping the front of the tunic closed. With Flora's guidance, Alistair found the correct lace and gave it a subtle tug, mouth still working hers; biting on the lower lip and suckling the tongue.

With the laces sufficiently loosened, it was relatively simple for Alistair to slide his hand inside the richly dyed lambswool. Flora inhaled unsteadily as calloused fingers stole over her naked breast, testing the ripeness of the newly swollen flesh with a soft squeeze.

He broke off the kiss just long enough to whisper in Flora's ear, unable to resist pulling gently on the lobe with his teeth.

"Let me know if I'm being too rough, baby," Alistair murmured throatily; recalling how she had told him that they were tender. "I just want to touch you for a little bit. Maker, you're _gorgeous._"

Alistair was as gentle as his word; and his care and discreetness awarded him several precious minutes of being to fondle his lover without interruption. It was the first time that he had touched her since before the final battle.

"Aha, perfect! I'll send this off with a servant," declared Leliana suddenly, holding out a wax stick close to the flames in preparation to seal her letter. "I wonder where the raven-coop is?"

Alistair, who had been enthusiastically tonguing his sister-warden's flushed nipple, reluctantly lifted his head. He pulled the laces of the tunic tight just as the bard turned around, waving the sealed envelope between elegant fingers.

"I have no idea," he replied evenly, remarkably composed considering the circumstances. "Any suggestions, Lo?"

"Nnnh…"

Leliana immediately squinted in suspicion, seeing Flora slumped back against the blankets with a vague, slightly dazed expression scrawled across her face.

"I hope you two haven't been engaged in anything _improper," _the bard hissed, her duck-egg blue eyes wide and accusatory. "Florence is here for purposes of _reflection, __prayer_ and _chastity_.Not to be _groped."_

Alistair raised his eyebrows down at Flora, who assumed her best devout expression and gazed back up at him piously.

"Exactly," she said airily, with an air of virtue that had Alistair stifling a snort of amusement. "No improperness, please."

"Well, then," he replied, grinning and reaching for the abandoned council notes. "I'll leave you to _reflect, pray and be chaste _in peace, my little pilgrim."

At the prospect of her brother-warden departing for the night, Flora sat up anxiously; her pale eyes seeking out his. Alistair leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead, murmuring assurances that he would be back tomorrow evening.

"Promise?"

"I swear, Lo. Not even a Sixth Blight could stop me."

"Aah, don't even _say_ it!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Poor Flo, she's far from over the loss of her spirits yet!


	9. A Game Of Chess

A short while later, the Chanter blinked and cleared her throat, standing up a little straighter. Flora offered the woman a slightly tentative smile, grimacing as her hairbrush worked through a fist-sized tangle.

"'_The Imperium slept. In their lofty palaces, they dreamed of the Maker's Palace, golden and shining,'" _replied Devotia, her strange violet-hued eyes gleaming in the firelight.

Nonplussed, Flora looked to Leliana for an explanation. The lay sister was massaging some perfumed Orlesian unguent into her skin with her fingertips, a small hand-mirror balanced on her knee.

"Yes, we are planning on retiring now," Leliana informed the Chanter, with a slightly irritable toss of the head. "Give us a moment."

Flora smoothed Alistair's shirt down over her thighs, settling back against the bed-cushions and yawning. Her brother-warden's spare tunics had been her nightclothes of choice during their travels; and wearing such now made her feel oddly close to Alistair, despite the four miles of distance between them.

Leliana moved about the chamber a few moments more, clad in a demure linen night-robe with a subtle lace trim. Once finished with her evening rituals, the bard dropped to her knees before the bed and began to murmur her prayers. The Chanter gave a small nod of approval from her position beside the door, arms folded across her armoured chest.

Flora listened absent-mindedly to Leliana's quiet devotions, feeling the little creature shift position within her belly.

_Don't start getting too energetic now, _she thought sternly to her own stomach. _It's bed-time. Go to sleep._

Something – a rounded skull or the curve of a shoulder – nudged against her from the inside. Flora instinctively dropped her fingers to the firm mound of linen-covered flesh, returning the pressure.

_I'm sorry that I denied your existence for so long_, she thought remorsefully as Leliana clambered into bed beside her. _I'm sorry for putting you in danger, though I don't regret it._

_I'm sorry that I didn't want you for such a long time. I thought a lot of bad things and wished that you were gone. I'm sorry._

The creature nudged against her palm and Flora slid her fingers further down to cup her stomach, feeling a sudden and unexpected surge of affection for the little creature lodged within her, which had – against all odds- clung so fiercely to life.

Leliana flashed Flora a brief smile, leaning across to blow out the candle.

"Goodnight, _ma cherie. _May the Maker watch over you as you sleep!"

_Maker and Templars._

Flora smiled back at the bard, sliding down into the cushions and pulling the blanket up to her chin.

The fireplace gave forth a constant, low crackling; the splitting of wood and spitting of sparks forming a gentle accompaniment to Leliana's snoring. In the background, a westerly ocean wind howled through Revanloch's decrepit ramparts, whistling about the crumbling towers and rattling the windows in their loose-fitting frames.

Flora listened to Leliana's soft, even breathing as the lay sister slept curled beside her. The gleam of a silverite blade was just visible beneath the bard's pillow, and Flora resolved to thank Leliana once again in the morning for volunteering to join her during her confinement. Impulsively, she reached out and stroked the curve of Leliana's skull, smoothing down a stray strand of hair. Leliana grunted in her sleep, shifting slightly in response to the feather-light touch.

To Flora's annoyance, her body seemed to be conspiring with the little creature lodged in her belly, their joint aim to keep her awake. The baby kept nudging impatiently into her kidneys; her lower back ached and her neck was so stiff that she could barely move her head without a twinge of pain.

Too uncomfortable to sleep and missing her brother-warden's solid presence, Flora stared up at the wooden ceiling beams. She decided to count as high as she was able – Finian had once told her that he used to number horses jumping over a fence to encourage sleep. Unfortunately, she had forgotten what number came after twenty nine – _threety_ just sounded wrong – and gave up shortly afterwards.

Instead, Flora gazed up at the ceiling; mentally projecting the map of Thedas against the plaster and beams.

_The Pentaghasts of Nevarra. The Valmonts of Orlais. The Vaels of Starkhaven._

By the time that Flora had finished recalling the name of each dynasty memorised earlier, the midnight change in watch was taking place.

Suddenly, there came the sound of footsteps from inside the room, and the shadows shifted against the wall. Flora squinted into the darkness, only to see Knight-Captain Gannorn advancing across the chamber.

Leliana, whose eyelids had sprung open on hearing the approaching steps, stayed awake just long enough to confirm the Templar's identity. Retrieving her hand from where it had slid beneath her pillow towards the blade, she rolled over and immersed herself in dreams once again.

Gannorn came to a halt next to Flora's side of the bed. Divesting himself of a glove, he reached his hand towards her face. With short, efficient and long-practised movements, he leaned forward to check her pupil and her temperature. Flora allowed him to touch her face unimpeded, more than used to these variant of Templar checks.

_It's pointless, anyway. My connection with the Fade is gone. I've as much magic as a dwarf._

Once finished, the Knight-Captain gave a businesslike grunt and withdrew his hand. He made as though to return to his station beside the door, then paused abruptly.

"You weren't asleep."

Flora shook her head, then realised that it was dark and replied instead in the negative.

"Are you not tired? You were yawning throughout _Complines."_

"My back hurts," she replied, slightly glumly. "It aches too much to sleep."

Gannorn paused, something indescribable flickering across his face. The next moment, he had retrieved several cushions from the foot of the bed and instructed her to lean forward.

The curious Flora obeyed, bending over as far as her swollen stomach would allow. The Templar positioned the cushions carefully at the base of the headboard, then requested that she return to normal position once more.

Flora did so, and was astonished at how the pressure on her lower back had been relieved.

"Oh!" she whispered, shifting against the cushions. "That's better, thank you. How did you – how did you know?"

The Knight-Captain made no reply for a moment, his gaze shifting towards the moonlit window. At first, Flora thought that the Templar would not deign to answer; then at last he spoke, his voice carefully neutral.

"I had a family, once."

A single, clean note of sadness rang through the seven syllables. Flora stared at the man for a moment, unsure what to say. Then the Knight-Captain gave a soft grunt and turned away, striding back into the shadows beside the door.

* * *

The next few days quickly fell into a similar pattern; Flora and Leliana both establishing the routine that they would follow for the next month. After breaking their fast, they would spend much of the morning in the draughty library, sitting at the reading tables and practising a variety of skills. To avoid raising suspicion, Leliana interspersed the study of the various Theodesian dynasties with more basic numeracy and literacy.

The bard need not have worried; Flora had never been formally tutored before, and was so delighted at the novelty of being _educated_ that she did not deign to question _why _she was learning about the Orlesian occupation of Ferelden, alongside how to count to one hundred.

Lunch each day took place within the great hall, before two hundred whispering initiates. The novelty of having the beautiful _Hero of Ferelden_ – a girl only a handful of years older than themselves – staying at the monastery, had not yet worn off. Hawk-like eyes followed Flora and Leliana's every move, from their entrance into the great hall to the setting down of forks at the end of the meal.

On the first day Flora had found this constant scrutiny desperately uncomfortable; by the third, she found it mildly disconcerting; by the fifth, she was able to mostly ignore it. Once again, Leliana waited with baited breath for Flora to enquire as to the _reason _why she needed to become so used to dining in public, yet Flora accepted it as she had done so many other changes in her life.

She and Leliana had also quickly grown used to the silent, constant presence of Knight-Commander Gannorn and Chanter Devotia. The two Templars followed ceaselessly in Flora's footsteps, flanking the doorway of whichever chamber she happened to be in, treading the corridors a handful of feet behind her. After a time, Flora barely even felt the heat of their stares; willingly submitting to their checks of her temperature and pupil-size. Each time that they confirmed that she had no connection with the Fade, a pang of sorrow twisted in Flora's gut.

Every afternoon, without fail, one of Flora's companions would arrive at Revanloch to spend several hours in her company. Knowing that Flora was confined within the walls of the monastery – and, unlike Leliana, would not be immersing herself in prayer and reflection – they often brought something to pass the time together.

One such bright and sunny day, Teagan arrived at Revanloch monastery with his saddlebag tucked beneath his arm. He passed the Royal Guard posted at the outer gate, and then the second pair flanking the internal doors; taking a deep breath of sunny, sea-scented air before stepping into the cool dampness of the monastery interior.

A young initiate showed the bann along the labyrinthine corridors, past a plethora of small study cells. Their footsteps echoed for dozens of yards down the corridors, the sound oddly muffled by the thickness of the stone walls.

The initiate gestured Teagan through an archway into an external courtyard; a small patch of sunshine within the musty enclosure of Revanloch. It had a small water fountain in one corner, and was lined with bushes half-wilting in the summer heat.

Leliana, clad in leathers rather than Chantry regalia, was perched on the edge of the water fountain and sharpening her blades. Flora was sitting at a small table in the shade, peering studiously down at a series of pebbles that she had arranged on the surface before her.

The bard, who had identified Teagan by his stride before he had even ducked out into the sunshine, greeted him with a regal Orlesian wave.

"Did you have a good journey, Teagan?" she called, not looking up from the whetstone gliding silkily over her blade.

"Aye," replied Teagan, glancing over to the two solemn-faced Templars posted several yards away. "Maker's Breath, this place is a soulless pile of rocks."

"_Au contraire!" _murmured the bard, with amusing piety considering the blade that she was currently sharpening. "It is _full _of soul, and devotion to the Maker!"

Teagan let out a dubious snort, crossing to Flora's side. She smiled up at him, squinting slightly against the brightness.

"Hello, poppet." Teagan ducked his head to kiss her cheek. "How are you?"

"Tired," Flora replied, honestly. "I'd forgotten what it was like to be woken up every few hours. It used to happen all the time at the Circle."

Teagan's brow creased as he took a seat at the small table, darting a pale green Guerrin stare across at the two impassive Templars flanking the doorway. They gazed back, silent and motionless; their gloved hands clasped before them like pious statues.

"Well, we can't have that, can we?" he murmured, resolving to mention it to Alistair on his return. "How is the babe?"

Flora reflexively glanced down at the swollen mound of her stomach, stretching the tunic's grey lambswool.

"It keeps _nudging _me," she said, slightly bemused. "Is it trying to... _tell me something?"_

Teagan, who was equally clueless when it came to such matters, gave a shrug.

"I'm not sure, petal."

"It means that the babe is large," Leliana called from across the courtyard, drawing her knife in an imaginary slash across an unfortunate opponent's throat. "It's growing quickly."

"Theirins do tend to produce large infants," Teagan added, reaching down to the leather saddlebag at his feet. "Maric was the size of a Mabari pup when he was born, and Rowan took a week to recover from the birth of Cailan."

Flora blanched several degrees, envisioning the additional months of growth that the child still had to come. The bann saw her eyes widen a fraction, and hastened to distract her.

"Anyway, I've brought this. Do you remember how to play?"

He lifted a polished wooden case onto the table, opening it up to reveal an ebon and ivory chessboard. The individual pieces were stored carefully in a carved holder to one side; their gleaming faces reflecting the afternoon sun.

"Oh," Flora breathed, reaching out to run her fingertip along the ridged surface of the counters. "I think I remember. These prawns are my favourite."

Teagan hid a smile, deftly arranging the pieces in their correct places on the board.

"_Pawns."_

They played several games as the sun inched its way towards the hills of the Bannorn. It soon became abundantly clear that Flora had no idea how to play – she slid her Chantry Mothers forwards instead of diagonally, and repeatedly tried to capture Teagan's king with her pawn.

On one occasion, she claimed to hear a dog barking in the passage and sent Teagan to investigate, only to quickly steal all of his most important pieces when his back was turned. Teagan returned to find half of his counters missing, and a small pebble where his queen should have stood.

"Where've my knights gone?" he demanded, in feigned outrage. "And my queen."

"They've been taken hostage by my prawn army," Flora explained airily, gesturing to where his counters were lined up neatly on her side of the board. "They are _prisoners of war."_

"I'm not sure those tactics are in the rule book," Teagan countered, raising one eyebrow.

"Well, I can't _read _the rule book!"

The bann laughed, his gaze settling on Flora as she sat opposite him, solemn and entirely unrepentant.

_She's guileless, _he thought, suddenly. _And charming in a way that wasn't learnt at court._

After Teagan had won three games in a row, Leliana laid down her blades and came to offer Flora assistance. The bard whispered instructions, using an elegant finger to sketch out potential moves; Flora followed the orders dutifully, and won the next two games.

Finally, Teagan and Leliana played each other; bann versus bard. It was a lengthy match, with the final winning move going to a triumphant Leliana. Flora applauded as the lay sister slid her queen across to join her king.

"And you didn't even need to sacrifice any of your prawns," she whispered, approvingly. "I wish I was as clever as you."

Leliana smiled, eyeing the ivory king and queen as they stood proudly alongside each other.

"These are beautifully carved pieces," she murmured after a moment, nudging the tip of her fingernail against the queen's finely hewn jaw. "Such intricate designs. This one has got the same cheekbones as you, Flora. In fact…"

The bard paused, her gaze sliding briefly towards Teagan before settling on their unsuspecting young Cousland.

"I'm going to name this piece _Queen Florence. _Since it resembles you so very much."

Leliana held her breath after delivering the seemingly innocuous statement, peering at Flora from beneath her eyelashes.

Flora appeared to be lost in thought, her brow furrowed deeply.

"Why is the knight counter just a horse?" she said after a moment, perturbed. "Horses can't use _swords. _Did the knight fall off its back?"

Teagan looked at Leliana, and the bard gave a mild shrug.

_She doesn't even register her own name being used in conjunction with 'queen'._

The daylight waned; the Templar initiates snuck surreptitious glances into the inner courtyard as they passed from drill to afternoon prayers. A servant came out with a tray of small pastries, blushing as the bann flashed her an appreciative smile.

"Alright," Teagan said, as the first ochre clouds of sunset crept across the horizon. "I should be getting back to the city."

He checked that each chess piece had been returned to its proper place, before closing the polished wooden case and sliding it back into his saddlebag. Flora pushed herself to her feet as the bann rose from the chair, wondering at the additional effort that this movement now took.

"Thank you for coming to visit me," she said, earnestly. "I appreciate it _a lot."_

"Of course, poppet," Teagan replied, slinging the leather pack over his shoulder. "We're all counting down the days until you return to Denerim."

"Me too," said Flora, solemnly.

This was not strictly true; she had some idea of the length of a _month _(the time it took for a spratling cod to develop fins), but had only a vague conception of how many _days _that consisted of.

"I'll probably pass Alistair on the way here. I'm glad to see you and the babe looking so well, pet."

A characteristic that had always set Flora aside from her fellow inhabitants of Herring, was her readiness to initiate contact with others. Teagan gritted his teeth as she embraced him without reservation, allowing his mind to wander for several moments. The drabness of Flora's soft grey tunic and the dishevelment of her braid only seemed to emphasise the striking artistry of her features; the pale eyes, the full, sulky lips, the rich, ox-blood hue of the hair.

_Still your nephew's lover, _the more rational part of his brain reminded him, sternly. _Carrying his child._

The distant, sonorous summon of the dinner bell echoed, rousing the bann from his reverie. A constant attendant to the demands of her stomach, Flora withdrew and began to shift from foot to foot, impatiently.

Leliana walked Teagan as far as the archway leading to the main passage, conscious of her promise to never stray from Flora's sight. The lay-sister smiled and nodded at the Chantry officials they passed, murmuring to the bann from the corner of her mouth.

"She's half your age, you know. _Literally."_

Teagan grunted; he was well-cognisant of this particular fact.

"Why nurture a sapling that won't survive?" Leliana continued, and there was an element of kindness within her quiet reprimand. "It cannot be easy to desire that which will never come to pass."

There came a sudden crash of tableware from behind them, and both turned towards the source of the noise. An elven servant carrying a tray of silverware across the courtyard had been startled by a pair of high-spirited recruits; dropping the contents of her arms everywhere.

Flora, who had immediately gone to assist, was kneeling down with her head turned sideways against the cobbles, trying to squint beneath a decorative flower planter.

"I think the bowl's gone under here," she called, looking around for something to assist her. "I need something long and skinny to get it out! My arms are too short."

As a bemused Chanter Devotia drew her sword and strode across the courtyard; Teagan returned his gaze to Leliana, with a resigned shrug.

"If the Maker ever instructs you on how to abandon your desire for a sweet-hearted lass, with the guts to kill an Archdemon, and a painter's dream of a face," he replied, bleakly. "Do let me know; because I can't see any way out of it. Andraste knows that I've tried."

Just then, Flora let out a squawk of triumph; crouched on the cobblestones with the fugitive sugar bowl held aloft.

"Ha! Here you go." She used the hem of her tunic to wipe the dirt from the silverware, before handing it back to the startled elven servant. "Good as new. Well, apart from the dent. Just blame it on me, I always drop things."

Leliana let out a sigh under her breath, reaching out to put a hand on Teagan's elbow. Bann and bard shared a glance of mutual understanding; they had spent several nights whiling away the hours in the same bed, both fully aware that the other desired a different partner.

"Safe journey back to Denerim, Bann Teagan," she murmured, softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: How obvious are Leliana's hints? "I'M GOING TO CALL THIS PIECE QUEEN FLORENCE", and Flora is just like, clueless lol.
> 
> Poor Teagan! He needs to find a nice girlfriend, any ideas? Haha.


	10. King Alistair's Courtship

As the younger Guerrin departed, Flora noticed something tall and white on the courtyard table. Advancing, she realised what it was with a small grimace of dismay.

"Oh! Bann Teagan forgot one of his chess pieces," she breathed, picking up the elegantly carved figure and rolling it against the flat of her scarred palm. "What's this? The Chantry Mother?"

"No," replied Leliana, with an inward snort at the Fereldan noble's attempt at subtlety. "It's the _queen, _Florence. Why don't you… look after it until he visits next?"

If the bard had been looking for any flicker of realisation on Flora's face, she would be disappointed. Flora slid the piece into her pocket without a second thought, her ears pricking at the sound of the dinner gong.

The evening arrived with hushed gentleness, streaking the sky with hues of ochre, blush and apricot. Even the soft light of the waning day could not lend much beauty to the harsh edges of Revanloch. Some of its crumbling balconies and decrepit turrets were masked by the violet shadow, yet its underlying brutalist ugliness persisted.

Flora, who was from the equally _offensive-to-the-eyes_ village of Herring, found the monastery's unapologetic drabness comforting. As she and Leliana returned to their quarters after dinner, the bard continued to contrast Revanloch to an abbey near Val Royeaux where she had once spent a summer. If the two Templars following silently in their wake took offence at the unfavourable comparison; they made no mention of it.

"Singing drifted through the air like perfume, from every open door and balcony at _Hautefroide_," Leliana reminisced, her spring-sky eyes hazy with memory. "The beauty of Andraste was reflected in every gilded statue and mirrored wall. One could have hosted a Royal ball in their great hall, and felt no shame at doing so."

"Did _you _ever go to any balls there?" Flora asked swiftly, having learnt that the best way to distract the bard was to question her about some glittering social facet of her past.

"_Non," _replied Leliana, wistfully. "The Maker's house should be no place for the Game; although I dare say more political intrigue has been brokered within their cloisters than the Chantry would like to admit."

As they turned the corner leading to their quarters, two upright figures clad in closed-face helmets caught their attention. They were garbed in the mustard and crimson livery of the Theirin dynasty, pikes held motionless at their sides as they stood guard.

Flora let out a reflexive squeak of excitement, since the presence of the Royal Guardsmen inevitably meant the presence of Alistair. Hearing the booted steps behind increase their pace to match hers, she strode down the corridor as fast as her stomach would allow.

The Royal Guard shifted their pikes from hand to hand in a sign of respect as Flora approached, then scrambled to open the door as she showed no signs of slowing down.

Alistair was waiting beside the window, hands tucked behind his back. The descending sun lit up both gilded hair and golden band; adding richness to the natural tan of his olive skin. He was gazing down at the ocean below with a pensive expression, brow furrowed in a single crease.

As Flora entered, he turned around and the careworn residue of a day spent in meetings and council chambers seemed to melt from his face. He grinned reflexively, the green flecks in his eyes standing out like shards of bottle-glass.

"My darling girl."

Flora paid no heed to the Royal Guard, the Templars or Leliana; as far as she was concerned, she and Alistair were the only two people alive in Ferelden. Ignoring everything in her periphery, she crossed the room and allowed herself to be enveloped in his extended arms. He felt warm, and strong; and she could have cried with how much she had _missed _him during the past twenty-four hours. 

Alistair held his best friend against his chest, feeling the steady throb of her sturdy workhorse heart. He buried his face in Flora's mass of half-loose hair, inhaling the familiar scent of the girl he loved. One hand slid down to stroke the firm mound of her belly, palm cupping the increasingly pronounced shape of their child. In the week that she had been at Revanloch, it seemed to have expanded several inches.

"Alistair," Flora said, and the king gazed down at her with bright, adoring eyes. "Bann Teagan forgot this piece of his chess set. Could you give it back to him?"

She slid a hand into her pocket and withdrew the carved length, holding it out to Alistair in the centre of her sunburst-marked palm. Alistair recognised the queen immediately, and hid a rueful smile at his uncle's attempt at subtle insinuation.

"Keep it, sweetheart," he murmured, closing her fingers over the piece. "You're the… _queen of my heart,_ after all."

"And you're the king _of my stomach," _replied Flora, head turning to locate the source of a delicious, fresh-baked smell. "What did you bring me?"

"Scones," Alistair said, glancing briefly towards a cloth-covered basket. "But, I've brought you something else, baby."

Releasing her from his arms, the king strode over to the wicker basket. Feeling her knee give a small twinge of protest, Flora wandered to the window and lowered herself to the cushioned seat. Leliana, who was permitted to go elsewhere whenever Alistair himself was with Flora, had vanished off to conduct her own business; though Knight-Captain Gannorn and Chanter Devotia were a constant, stern-faced presence.

Flora peered up through the glass at the emerging moon, sliding out delicately from behind a lacy veil of cloud. The Amaranthine Ocean lost its rich, emerald-green sheen in the darkness; stretching out in an expanse of soft, desaturated grey.

When she turned back into the room, Alistair was holding an overflowing bundle of roses in his arms; several dozen blooms erupting from the restraining twine. Several stems fell to the floor as he approached her, his expression unreadable.

Flora blinked up at her former brother-warden in astonishment, watching as he sat carefully on the bench beside her with the bundle of flowers in his lap.

"Lo, do you remember when I gave you that rose from Lothering?" he asked, quietly.

Flora gave a wide-eyed nod; of course she did.

"In the inn, on the way back to Redcliffe," she replied, recalling how Alistair had withdrawn the stem hesitantly from his pack, cheeks flushed from something other than the heat of the hearth. "I was sad about not being able to set a fire in the hearth. You told me that you liked me for _exactly what I was."_

Flora had kept the rose alive for as long as possible with the help of her spirits, prodding new life into the wilting leaves and restoring colour to the fading petals. When it was beyond even her own prodigious skill, Flora had pressed it between the pages of _Exotic Fish of Thedas; _preserving it forever alongside the wax-paper dog that he had folded for her at Ostagar.

"I wanted you to have these," Alistair said, inwardly annoyed that he could think of no suitably poetic delivery. "Because I- I love you. And all the roses in Thedas wouldn't be enough to show you _how much _I love you, but… but I wanted to give you these anyway."

He trailed off, miserably aware of his own lack of eloquence.

Flora gazed down at the roses, spilling over Alistair's lap and onto the window bench. They were a haphazard collection – some were still tightly sealed in bud, others were overblown and spilling crimson petals onto the velvet. It was clearly no professional bundle purchased from a flower-seller. She envisioned her companion wandering about the gardens of the palace grounds, clumsily gathering blooms into a haphazard bouquet; more preoccupied with affection rather than aesthetic.

"They're beautiful," Flora replied, solemnly. "Thank you. And I love you too, more than anything in the world."

Alistair shot her the small, intimate smile that was rarely seen in public; the one that he kept just for her. Reaching out for Flora's hand, he lifted her fingers to his mouth and kissed them.

"Well, it occurred to me," he murmured, keeping hold of her hand as he lowered it. "That I've not done much in the way of… _romance. _I mean, the Blight just- sort of - _threw_ us together and I… I never got to _court _you. In the way that a beautiful girl should be courted."

Flora gazed at him, slightly enthralled. In Herring, courtship was relatively unheard of – a boy and a girl spent a few hours behind a rock on the beach to see if they were compatible, then the boy would present the girl with a fish. If she chose, the girl could accept both fish and accompanying proposal; then they would get married the next time that a Chantry official paid a visit to their local chapel. It was entirely practical, rather than _romantic._

"I don't really know what _courtship_ is," Flora breathed. "But isn't it a bit late for it? I mean…"

She dropped her gaze to the swell of their child, and Alistair's bright hazel eyes softened; following her own.

"I'd like to do it anyway," he murmured, reaching out to stroke the hair away from her face. "It's what I'd do if I were a stable-boy and you a little fishwife, whom..."

_Whom I want to marry, _he thought determinedly to himself.

Flora looked around at the roses, spilling petals over the bench, and her heart suddenly throbbed with a single, hard pulse of affection.

"Thank you for the flowers," she said, leaning forward to kiss the coarse stubble of his jaw. "It's so kind of you. I _love _you."

Alistair smiled at her, a sudden spark of recognition flashing in his gaze.

"Oh, I meant to tell you," he continued, the edges of his mouth curling upwards in a grin. "You'll find this funny. The bards are already starting to compose their songs about the Fifth Blight – Leliana will have some competition, I think – and they're calling you the _Flower of Ferelden."_

Flora looked distinctly unimpressed, her brow creasing in a petulant fold.

"The _flower?" _she breathed, slightly indignant. "Why not the _Fist of Ferelden?_ If I were the _Fist of Ferelden, _they could say that I _punched_ the Darkspawn horde… that I _fisted _the Archde- well, maybe not_."_

Alistair was grinning widely, his fingers tightening around her own. Flora continued, grumpily.

"I'd rather be the _Fish-lover of Ferelden."_

The king let out a bark of laughter, reaching forward to gather her into his arms.

"You'd really want history to remember you as the _fish-lover?"_

"I don't particularly want history to remember me _at all!"_

"Well, I think it's too late for that, my dear."

Parting on this sixth night apart was no less difficult than it had been on the first. The smell of roses mingled with the cedar-scented wood burning on the hearth; as both former wardens clung to each other in the shadows, reluctant to separate. As he did each evening before departing, Alistair knelt before Flora and massaged the day's tensions from her sore knee.

"I'll see you tomorrow, my darling," he whispered throatily, so used to the ubiquitous presence of the Royal Guard that he barely noticed them crowding into the chamber.

"You won't be late? It starts at mid-day," Flora reminded him anxiously, fingers wrapping themselves in the edge of his gold-threaded tunic. "Please don't be late."

"I'll be early, Lola, I swear it," Alistair assured her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head before standing.

Tomorrow would be the burning of Riordan, the senior Warden who had leapt from the pinnacle of Fort Drakon and clung so heroically to the Archdemon's wing. He had sacrificed his life to ground the dragon; to rob it of the flight that gave it such an advantage in combat. At Alistair's request, the man's body had been transported to Revanloch; where the pyre had already been constructed.

Flora nodded, feeling a hard lump of sadness rise in her throat as she thought on the man whom she had first met in Howe's dungeon. Riordan had reminded her of Duncan in more ways that could be counted; and – like Duncan – he too had been taken from her prematurely.

Alistair looked hard at her face for a long moment, as though memorising its curves and angles. Then, on hearing Leliana approach with a gentle step upon the flagstones, he took his leave with aching heart.

That night, Flora slept fitfully; tossing and turning in a dreamless restlessness. It was not the child keeping her up - though her lower back was aching and sore – it was a general sense of _dis-ease_. Beside her, Leliana was sleeping soundly on her side, curled up into the blankets like a marmalade-coloured cat. The moonlight shone in diffused rays through the leaded window; illuminating the flagstones in gleaming array.

_Riordan is here, somewhere. In the monastery._

Flora sat upright, kicking the coverlet away with a petulant foot. The Templar Chanter Devotia was on duty – she stood stock still before the door; vigilant as the bodyguard of any paranoid Orlesian duchess.

"'_And the Maker did send forth succour for his thirsty flock?'" _the Chanter murmured, a slight upwards inflection at the end of the sentence indicating that this was a question.

"No, thank you," whispered back Flora, politely. "I don't need a drink."

For a moment she wondered whether to wake Leliana, but the bard looked so peaceful that Flora decided against it. Instead, she retrieved a woollen jumper from her pack to pull on overtop her knee-length nightgown - Ferelden nights were persistently chilly, despite the season – and found her boots beneath the bed.

While Flora made herself more appropriate for nocturnal wanderings, Chanter Devotia watched with increasing disapproval.

"'_And the Maker walked the land/With Andraste at His right hand?'" _she hissed, her meaning clear.

Flora, as unfamiliar with the Chant of Light as she was with the great Archons of Tevinter, blinked for several moments. Deciding that the Templar was probably not going to _impede _her progress, she took an experimental step towards the door.

As Flora had hoped, the Templar looked irritated but did not make any move to stop her. The Chanter merely let out a small sigh under her breath, and made to follow the young Cousland as she sidled down the passageway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I wanted to make a reference back to the rose-scene in this chapter! I do think that Alistair would want to try and do things 'properly' with regard to Flora. Although she's pregnant with their child, and they've done pretty much every sexual thing under the sun together; now that the Blight is over and they can relax a little bit, I think he would want to try and court her before he proposes. Or Alistair's interpretation of courtship, lol.
> 
> Lol at Flora feeling oddly comfortable within the monastery, because it's ugly and cold (like Herring), and everyone walks around with a scowl on their face (like Herring!)
> 
> So Riordan's funeral is tomorrow – it'll be Flora's first proper Andrastian funeral, and I thought it would be nice to contrast it with Cailan's funeral pyre at Ostagar. BUT! Before we get to that… Flora's nocturnal wanderings never go well, do they? And someone with distinctly malevolent intentions has managed to infiltrate the monastery…


	11. Assassins In The Chantry

Revanloch at night was not wholly different from Revanloch at day. The basalt corridors were still shadowed and cool, the goose-fat candles burning low in their scones. The initiates were asleep in their dormitories, and only the most dedicated of the Maker's servants would rouse themselves to perform the nightly service_._

Flora no longer possessed the ability to visit the Fade at night, but she felt almost as though she were in a dream as she crept down the corridors. It was so quiet that her footsteps seemed deafening against the stone, and the sound of her own breath was amplified. In her wake, Flora could hear Chanter Devotia several paces behind; the disapproval emanating off the Templar in waves.

Flora made her way down one snaking passageway after another, unsure if she was even heading the right way. Despite having a good memory; living in one location for the majority of her life meant that she had not developed an efficient sense of direction. Alistair had done most of the navigating on their travels, and even then they had got lost on more than one occasion.

Finally, after almost ending up in one of the recruit dormitories, Flora stumbled across the main arterial corridor that ran the length of the monastery; a great high-ceilinged hallway from which a dozen smaller passages branched.

At the end of this hallway lay a set of vast double doors, a huge Maker's symbol emblazoned at their pinnacle. The closer she drew, the more Flora slowed; knowing that the monastery's Chantry lay behind those innocuous doors.

_And in the Chantry-_

Flora swallowed, coming to an abrupt halt beneath a great iron candelabra. The Chanter stopped behind her, letting out another small huff of irritation.

Caught in a net of indecision, Flora shifted from foot to foot, lifting her gaze to the Chantry symbol. The creature gave an impatient nudge against her stomach, and she dropped her fingers to smooth absent-mindedly over the fraying wool of her jumper. She was so preoccupied with her thoughts, that she barely noticed the flicker of movement in the shadows near the door.

_Do you think I should stop dithering and just get on with it?_

There was only silence in response.

_Fine, then._

Taking a deep breath, Flora reached out and gave one of the vast doors an experimental push. It swung open easily, with a creak that seemed inappropriately loud considering the night's stillness.

The Chantry loomed upwards and outwards before her, stern and stone-wrought; with no sunlight to illuminate the stained glass windows. Dozens of candles blazed away in tall, free-standing candelabras, the eternal flame of Andraste burning away in continual tribute.

"'_Lady of Perpetual Victory, Your praises I sing,'" _murmured Chanter Devotia, raising her fist to her chest in reverent salute.

Yet Flora's attention was drawn neither to the great statue of Andraste, nor the impressive carved columns that lined the central aisle. Her gaze went straight to the stone plinth at the far end; upon which a familiar figure rested.

For a moment, Flora felt the stone flagstones lurch beneath her, as though she had attempted to stand up in a row boat. She put out a hand to a nearby pew to steady herself; inhaling a gulp of cool, perfumed air.

_Come on, Flora. That's your senior officer._

_Deep breath, chin up, eyes straight!_

The journey down the central aisle seemed to take an Age. As she passed each pew, Flora reached out to touch their worn, wooden backs, assuring herself with each step that she was in the waking world, and not the Fade. Riordan's body was not going to contort itself into macabre shapes; it was not going to pose some innocuous question that disguised a demon's trick. It was merely a body; the spirit departed; the soul already dissolved through the Veil.

It had been a fortnight since the Blight was ended, and Flora knew that Riordan would not look as she remembered him. She was _– had been – _a healer, and understood well how death could change the flesh and form of a body. She and Sten had retrieved Cailan's wind-blasted corpse from the Darkspawn crux at Ostagar, and the king had been months dead by that point.

Yet, to her surprise, Riordan did not seem to be much changed from when she had known him. The senior Warden was clad in the Order's colours of navy and silver, his greying hair swept back beneath his head in a ponytail. His face was still, the cheeks a fraction more hollow; the skin had a slightly waxen quality to it. Flora wondered if there had been a method of preservation applied to the dead Warden, or if a Circle mage had performed some magic of similar effect.

Stepping up beside the plinth, Flora gazed down at her dead officer with a hard lump of sadness in her throat. For a moment, she envisioned Duncan lying there; his tan Rivaini features robbed of their richness.

_You were never laid out to rest. There was no funeral pyre, no memorial for you._

Not wanting to dwell on what the Darkspawn did with the corpses of the dead, Flora reached out with a tentative finger and touched Riordan's cheek. His skin felt oddly leathery, perhaps as a side-effect of the preservation.

"Thank you," she said out loud, her voice echoing between the stone columns. "I couldn't have killed the Archdemon without you. I hope you're at peace. Thank you for… everything."

Unsure whether she was talking to Riordan or Duncan, Flora leaned forward and pressed her lips to the prostrate man's forehead; its creases smoothed out in death.

"Say hello to my spirits if you see them in the Fade," she whispered, feeling a single throb of longing deep in her gut.

"'_The Veil knows no uncertainty for Her/And She will know no fear of death.'"_

The Chanter spoke quietly, letting a rare touch of sympathy tinge her words. Flora smiled at the Templar, surprised and grateful for the unexpected empathy.

"Sorry to make you walk all this way in the middle of the night," she said, apologetically. "I just wanted to… say goodbye privately. Before the funeral tomorrow."

Devotia inclined her head; it had been no problem.

Just then, the sound of footsteps echoed about the large, hollowed chamber. The young lieutenant Rutherford emerged from a small side-chapel, startling when he caught sight of them. Fortunately, this time, there was nothing in his hands that he could drop.

Flora spared one last glance down at Riordan's still, ascetic face, fixing it as best she could in her memory. She knew that tomorrow, the senior Warden's body would be consumed in an Andrastian pyre, his empty shell transmogrified into smoke and black ashes.

"This feels like four – _five _years ago, when we were at the Circle," Flora said at last into the reverent shadows, flashing a slightly wan smile at the young officer. "Remember when you used to catch me sneaking back from the kitchens at night? Well, I'm still sneaking!"

Cullen nodded silently, trying to avoid Chanter Devotia's violet-eyed glower.

"Sorry," he muttered, casting a curious glance over at Riordan's still body. "I didn't mean to disturb you. I was just… attending night prayers. I like to say my devotions when there's nobody else around."

"Don't be sorry," Flora countered, stepping carefully down from the raised stone platform. "It was _me_ who disturbed _you."_

The eternal flame smouldered away behind her, bathing both plinth and low steps in shifting, ochre light. Flora had never had much of an opinion on this particular aspect of Chantry tradition before, but now she found herself irrationally glad that Riordan was not lying alone in the darkness.

"I'm going back to my room now," she breathed, apologetic. "I'm sorry for breaking curfew. _Again."_

The young lieutenant made a dismissive gesture, still self-conscious in her presence.

"You're not the only one here for night-prayer, I saw someone else a moment ago. Besides, the Chantry has no jurisdiction over you any more," Cullen replied, with a mild shrug.

"You could break every rule that Revanloch has, and the Knight-Commander could only grumble under his breath."

Chanter Devotia narrowed her eyes, murmuring under her breath in disapproval.

" '_The Maker smiles not on an errant child/Who recklessly defies His teachings!'"_

"Oh, no!" Flora hastened to reassure both lieutenant and senior Templar, her eyes wide at the thought of such rebellion. "I don't usually break rules. I usually do exactly as I'm told."

_Except have Leliana accompany me everywhere, _she realised, with a sudden twinge of guilt.

"I remember."

There was an odd, slightly wistful timbre to the young Templar's voice. "You never caused any trouble for us at the Circle. Just for your instructors."

Cullen had lost count of the number of times he had stumbled across the adolescent Flora while patrolling a corridor; scrubbing diligently at the flagstones with a damp cloth, or sneezing as she disturbed a month's worth of gathered dust with a broom. Well-meaning but both figuratively and magically illiterate, Flora had been expelled from the classroom more often than not.

"Well, it's hard to- " he began, and then something arced its way through the gloom of the Chantry; soft and silent as the swoop of some predatory bird. It only became visible as it caught the light of the Chantry flame, the silvered metal flashing bright and deadly.

Chanter Devotia - whose dour-faced piety hid a lethality unrivalled by any other Templar in the Order - withdrew her blade with a joyful singing of metal, whipping it up to deflect the thrown blade. Sword collided with knife, knocking its smaller counterpart from the air with a clash of metal that echoed around the standing pillars.

The blade fell to the floor, and there followed a moment of incredulous silence. Flora blinked at the knife as it lay on the flagstones, the silvered point coated with some sort of oily residue. It had all happened so quickly that she had not had time to duck, or even to flinch; had merely stood, gaping inanely, as death flew through the air towards her. For the first time in Flora's life, the spirits had not been able to summon a gleaming barrier in her defence.

"Wait, was that meant for _me?" _she asked, more confused than frightened.

Moments later, hurried footsteps echoed from the gloom-shrouded columns that lined either side of the main aisle.

"Lieutenant, guard her!" snapped Chanter Devotia, the urgency of the situation overriding her adherence to the Chant. "Find some cover!"

Cullen gave a tight nod, reaching out to grab Flora's hand and pulling her without ceremony behind Riordan's plinth.

"Get down," he hissed at her, the usual shy deference replaced with a vein of command. "Stay behind me."

Flora, still in mild shock, slithered down to sit on the tiles with her back against the plinth. It was far from comfortable, but she barely registered the cold seeping through the thin linen of her nightgown.

_Did someone just try and kill me?_

For the second time in her life – the first being when she had been Howe's prisoner, with the magic-blocking collar around her neck – Flora felt horribly vulnerable. She cringed back against the stone, staring up at the young Templar officer as he stood before her with sword drawn.

_I can't defend us. I can't protect you. I'm useless!_

For several moments, Flora folded her arms across her stomach, shielding the child resting in her belly with her own flesh and bone. On the one hand, she was used to being the prey of would-be assassins – thanks to Rendon Howe, she had become accustomed to having a target on her back – yet now she had the little creature to think of, and her own new vulnerability.

_On the other hand, I'm still a Herring girl._

It was not an easy task to search the shadowed Chantry for interlopers – candles made little headway against the shroud of night, and the rows of parallel pews provided plenty of hiding places for a would-be assassin. Chanter Devotia, sword drawn, made her way down the central aisle; methodologically checking each potential refuge. Despite the full armour, her movements were as stealthy as Leliana's – a metal-clad predator, stalking between the pews in absolute, held-breath silence.

"_Come out, you fish-bellied coward!" _came a sudden bellow from behind her, and the Templar's jaw dropped in consternation.

"_If you've got a problem with me, say it to my FACE!"_ continued Flora, unsuccessfully grappled by a bug-eyed Cullen who was clearly reluctant to expend too much force in restraining her.

Managing to escape the young lieutenant, she scuttled around the plinth and spun her head from left to right; squinting into the shadows.

"Come out, come out and take me!" she demanded, the full northern patois of her voice echoing to the vaulted ceiling. "I'm _not scared of you! I killed a dragon!"_

"My la – _Flora – _please come back," Cullen begged, not wanting to pull too hard at her elbow. "Get behind some cover."

"I'm not going to _hide!" _the child of Herring retorted, following in Chanter Devotia's footsteps as the female officer put a despairing hand to her head. "I want to find this bottom feeder and _GIVE THEM A GOOD KICKING."_

Taking a deep lungful of air, she tilted her head towards the lofty ceiling.

"Come OUU-"

Her boot made contact with an object that scraped along the flagstones, and Flora abruptly cut off her own outraged bellow. Looking down, she spotted something small and round that glinted dully in the candlelight.

With a soft grunt of effort, she stretched her fingers down and retrieved the flat object, which appeared to be a metal token of some sort. The side facing her was blank, but she could feel an etched pattern pressing against her palm.

Turning the token over, Flora focused on the crudely carved symbol; her stomach lurching as she recognised the all-too-familiar bear.

_Howe. How?!_

"Can ghosts throw daggers?" she asked to nobody in particular, feeling icy fingers of dread creeping up her spine. "Is it a GHOST!?!"

Just then, the main doors went crashing open and a contingent of Templars burst in; swords drawn and shields up. The Knight-Commander was at their head, a raised torch casting dizzying patterns of light over the flagstones.

"What in the Maker's name- ?!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Flora is still in the habit of talking to her spirits, even though she's never going to get any reply back! She also doesn't yet understand how vulnerable she is now – hence the recklessness displayed in this chapter. Flora's foolhardiness is one of her biggest flaws, and she's been able to get away with it because her spirits have always had her back… but not anymore! Can you just imagine Cullen trying to drag her (except not DRAG her, because she's nearly five and a half months pregnant) behind cover, while Flora bellows obscenities like a true Herring girl?
> 
> I really didn't want this sequel to just be a happy-go-lucky "Alistair and Flora get MARRIED AND HAVE BABY AAAH SO CUTE HAPPILY EVER AFTER" story – I think that would be a bit naff! Hopefully that became obvious when I sent Flora off into confinement at the monastery right from the beginning – and now, it's clear that their problems aren't over! It's not going to be easy ride!
> 
> So, someone from the Howe family wants to take their revenge on Flora – after all, she did blow up Rendon Howe's head, lol – but who could it be? There are three possible candidates: Nathaniel, Delilah and youngest sibling, Thomas.


	12. The Wrath Of A King

Some time later, a sulking Flora sat in the Knight-Commander's office, half-listening to him rant, but mostly watching a sly mouse skulk along the base of the far wall.

The Templar – incongruously clad in night linens - had spent the past hour pacing the length of his office; the relentless back and forth was dizzying to watch. He was fluctuating between disbelief at such a violation in security, remorse that it should have happened within his own facilities, and barely disguised trepidation about what the king's reaction might be. The entire monastery was in the process of being searched from top to bottom; from the depths of the underground cellars to the rookery in the crumbling northern tower. A raven had already been sent up to Denerim Castle, containing brief details of what had transpired.

_There was an attempt on the lady Cousland's life. She is unharmed; the assassin has not yet been located._

Chanter Devotia, who had returned to her usual tight-lipped taciturn state, had brought Lieutenant Rutherford with her into the office. Cullen recanted the events that had transpired in the Chantry, first to a grim-faced Knight-Commander, and then once again to a scowling Gannorn and a horrified Leliana. The bard proceeded to berate Flora for a solid twenty minutes; finally threatening to handcuff the young Cousland's wrist to her own as they slept.

This lecture was the cause of Flora's sulk: she was used to being told off, but in this case, she did not feel as though she entirely _deserved _it.

"I just wanted to see Riordan," she muttered as the bard took a deep gulp of air. "Didn't do nothing wrong."

Leliana shot her an incredulous look, then imitated Flora's northerner's tongue with remarkable skill.

"'_Come out you fish-bellied coward! Come out and face me... to my face!'"_

Flora shot a slightly resentful glower towards Lieutenant Rutherford, whom she felt had been a little _too _detailed in his recanting of events.

"_Ma petite, _you have no shield!"

"I know."

"You are _vulnerable. _To say nothing of the child!"

"I know!"

Flora slunk down a little further in her seat, realising that she had indeed been in the wrong in this particular instance.

_I can't be so reckless. I have no way to defend myself. Or Baby._

Just then, there came a minor commotion from the corridor. The Knight-Commander's head shot up in alarm and he had just enough time to brace himself behind the desk.

Moments later, the door crashed back against the stone and the king of Ferelden erupted into the chamber; incandescent with rage and fright in a way that Flora had never before seen. In what seemed like seconds, the room was full – Eamon was there in hastily donned clothing, as were both Finian and Teagan. Zevran slid in like a shadow in their wake, his expression dark and utterly humourless.

The Knight-Commander's chamber suddenly seemed very small, especially with Alistair's anger billowing outwards like some expanding volcanic mass. He swept his gaze across the chamber, fever-bright eyes settling immediately on his pregnant mistress as she sat glumly on a side-bench, legs sticking out before her and the hem of her jumper fraying.

In a heartbeat the new king was crouching before her, a greyish tinge beneath the furious crimson patches on his cheeks. Fingers came up to clutch at Flora's elbows, his frantic stare probing her own solemn expression.

"Flora," he breathed, a rasp to the edge of the word. "Are you alright, my love?"

She nodded, hoping fervently that nobody would inform Alistair of _come out you fish bellied coward, come and face me to my face!_

"And the child?"

Instead of a verbal reply, Flora took his hand and pushed the heel of his palm into her belly, letting him feel the little creature shifting against the confines of it's temporary home.

Alistair closed his eyes, exhaling in exhausted relief. Leaning forward, he pressed a hard and grateful kiss to her mouth; the mask of anger dropping once more over his features as he rose to his feet and turned towards the Knight-Commander.

"Ser, I entrusted you with my love and the mother of my child," he began, his voice dangerously low. "The most _precious_ thing in the world to me. And – believe it or not - I thought that my Flora would be safe in a building _filled with soldiers_. Care to explain what the fuck happened?"

"Aye," added Eamon, equally grim. "There seems to have been a serious lapse in your security. I thought that all entrances were guarded?"

As arl, king and bann continued to loudly interrogate the sweating Knight-Commander, Zevran took a seat on one side of Flora, while Finian lowered himself to the bench on her other flank.

"Thank the Maker that you're alright, Flossie," breathed Flora's brother, smoothing down a strand of russet hair with trembling fingers. "Fergus has gone back up north to check on Highever. If he was here, he'd be tearing this hideous building apart _brick by brick _to find this deviant."

Flora gazed up at her former brother-warden, who was clearly building up towards some great Marician outburst of wrath as he towered over the Knight-Commander. Alistair was visibly struggling to restrain himself, fists clenched at his sides and colour flooding the back of his neck. A vein throbbed in his temple, pulsing hard and visible.

"It's a _disgrace," _he was snarling, letting the full force of his rage wash over the three Templars. "An absolute fucking _disgrace. _What kind of –_ incompetent idiots _are you training here?"

To Flora's dismay, Finian now rose to his feet and joined in the angry interrogation, determined not to let little sister down in elder brother's absence. Flora's eyebrows shot to the ceiling and she leaned back against the stone wall, wishing fervently that she had just stayed in bed.

_Would they have just come for me when I was sleeping, then? That's no better._

"_Mi sirenita."_

She glanced to where Zevran perched on the bench beside her, his usually lithe and sprawling frame suffused with tension. There was none of the customary relaxed ease about his face; no playful smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Instead, the elf's expression seemed fixed and grim as a death mask, the tiny creases at the corners of his eyes made deeper by such steely rigidity.

He spotted her looking and made a contorted effort that was supposed to be a smile. Reaching up, he touched her cheek gently with a deft, tan thumb; tracing the outline of the delicate bone.

"Are you well, _mi lirio Rialto?"_

She nodded gloomily, Herring stoicism rising to the fore even during these dire circumstances. Zevran let out a little exhalation under his breath, reaching for her fingers and giving them a squeeze.

"Is there any indication as to who could be behind this?" Teagan demanded, in an effort to channel the king's anger along more productive lines. "I'm just at a loss to suggest _who _would want Flora dead. The people adore her; she's just ended the Fifth Blight, for Maker's sake!"

This, at least, she _could _answer. Flora stretched out her hand into the room, showing the flat metal token in her palm. Alistair strode over, taking the coin and squinting at the symbol etched on the copper surface.

The moment that his eyes fell on the crudely-carved bear, his skin diffused into a mottled patchwork of grey and pink; lips drawing back over his teeth like a guard-Mabari spotting an intruder.

"_Howe?"_

Although Flora had had the same incredulous reaction within the Chantry, hearing somebody else say the name out loud made the situation seem grievously real. Her throat constricted, and for a moment she could almost feel the anti-magic collar tight around her neck.

"But… but Howe is dead," Alistair continued, in tones of throaty disbelief. _"Months _ago."

"He has three grown children," Teagan murmured, his expression grim. "The eldest hasn't been in Ferelden for years – I believe he's in the Marches, squiring for one of the lords there. There's a sister, who's up in Amaranthine. And- "

"The lad, the one about Florence's age," finished Eamon, grimly. "He slipped the guard and vanished a month ago. Thought he was fleeing the Blight."

There was a heavy silence, and Alistair clenched the coin so tightly in his fist that it dug red marks into his skin.

"Well, I did kill their dad," Flora offered, in a small voice. "I'm not surprised they want to… to kill me."

She grimaced, recalling the feeling of Howe's hands on her waist; his livery lips on hers; the taste of his brains in her mouth after she'd broken his skull into pieces.

"It's _hardly _the same!" Finian's voice rose in indignation, his remaining eye widening. "Howe betrayed our family and had our parents murdered in cold blood. He kidnapped you, Floss; he was going to _Tranquilise_ you and flaunt you as some sort of… twisted trophy bride!"

Flora flinched; the memory of being instructed to wash Howe's wrinkled back somehow worse than the one where she had shattered his head with her expanding shield.

Alistair exhaled unsteadily, the rage subsiding quickly to a raw, sour-edged fear. He crossed to where Flora was sitting on the bench and knelt before her, touching the side of her face as though to confirm yet again that she was whole and unharmed.

"Flora, I couldn't cope if anything happened to you," he said, bleak and matter-of-fact. "I'd... I'd go mad, I know it. I can't live without you."

Flora lifted her hand to rest her palm against his, unsure what to say in response to this hopeless prediction.

Meanwhile, Zevran had wandered across to where the knife lay on a Chantry plate; the crudely hewn blade incongruous against the gleaming silver. He ducked his head to sniff at the clear liquid coating the dagger point, then dabbed at it with the very tip of his finger. Touching the end of his tongue to the poison, the elf squinted in concentration; mentally running through his catalogue of toxins.

"This is not the concoction of a _skilled_ assassin," he said at last, drawing the attention of the others in the room. "Everything about this attempt seems clumsy and amateurish. The blade is _blunt, _for a start."

"I agree," Leliana chimed in immediately, her pale blue eyes meeting his own. "Besides, I doubt that any assassins' guild would take a contract on the _Hero of Ferelden. _No amount of gold would be worth the backlash."

Zevran gave a slight nod, sliding the blade into a discrete pocket within his tunic. There was none of the usual humour within his tone as he spoke, his coal-black irises seeking out Alistair's own with steady purpose.

"Alistair, I will make some enquiries," he murmured, softly. "I have eyes and ears beyond the city walls; and my hand can delve into farther and darker places than even the reach of a king."

Alistair inhaled, gratitude breaking through the storm clouds massing across his face.

"You'll find out who did this?"

The elf inclined his head in assent, as the rest of the room fell silent.

"I will find them, _amor, _and when I find them, I shall endeavour to restrain myself. I imagine that you would want to enact your own punishment upon such a villain."

"Well, they're a traitor," Alistair replied, without pause. "Any crime against Flora is a crime against Ferelden itself. They'll get a traitor's death."

A grateful Finian reached out to touch the elf's sleeve as he passed; Zevran let long, deft fingers drift over his lover's knuckles.

Flora, who was not happy at this new turn that the evening had taken, gazed at her Crow with solemn-faced disapproval. The corners of Zevran's mouth turned upwards, and he caught her hand to kiss her curling fingers.

"Why are you pouting, _mi reina?"_

She frowned; she could not quite articulate why she was afraid. The elf read the anxiousness writ plain across her fine-boned face, and leaned down to press his tattooed cheek to hers.

"Be careful," Flora said gravely, as the elf smiled ruefully to himself. "And… thank you."

"No need to thank me, _carina. _I cannot have _knives _being flung at _mi sirenita, _hm?"

Returning upright, Zevran swivelled his dark gaze across to where Alistair hovered.

"I'll send some enquiries off now with the ravens," he murmured, soft and reassuring. "And see you before I leave on the morrow."

"Thank you, Zev."

Once Zevran had gone, Alistair turned back to the Knight-Commander; his expression steely.

"I don't see why I shouldn't take her back up to the palace now," he said, blunt as a neglectful headman's ax. "The Divine has already confirmed Flo's status, which will be good enough for the Landsmeet. Half of the banns have already asked me why she's not back yet."

"Alistair, think a moment," murmured Eamon, low and thoughtful. "Denerim Castle is far larger. It's more public. There are nearly a thousand people passing in and out of its gates daily."

"Arl Eamon is right," added Leliana, quietly. "The monastery is still more secure. Easier to guard."

Alistair ground his teeth together, the green flecks in his hazel eyes standing out stark in the light from the hearth. He lowered himself to the bench beside Flora, taking the spot recently vacated by Zevran.

"Then… then I want the number of Royal Guard posted here doubled," he said, the fear congealing sourly in his stomach. "The number of patrols to increase. I want extra guards outside her room at night."

"I'd stay, but I can't wield a blade," Finian interjected, with a grimace of frustration. "My coordination is still poor. If only Fergus were here- "

"Alistair, I'm happy to relocate my own sleeping quarters down here," Teagan interrupted, softly. "I'll need to be in the city during the day, but the journey isn't long."

Alistair's face brightened immediately, his gaze swivelling across to the younger of the Guerrin brothers.

"You'd do that, uncle?"

Teagan gave a brief nod, a wry smile curling the corner of his mouth.

"Thanks to your sister-warden, my brother's and my nephew's lives have been saved; and not only Redcliffe, but the _whole of Ferelden_ preserved. I could spend the rest of my life repaying a debt like that."

_Not all of Ferelden was preserved, _Flora thought as she blinked thoughtfully back at the bann. _Not Lothering. Not South Reach_

Alistair rose to his feet to thank his uncle, his gratitude effusive. To a sweating Knight-Commander's relief, the king seemed somewhat placated by these new arrangements.

"Alright. It's decided, then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Alistair is not a happy bunny, lol! Although it's good that he doesn't blame Flora for wandering around at night – he recognises that she's perfectly entitled to wander around wherever she likes, and it's the responsibility of those running the monastery to keep her safe.
> 
> Flora referring to the child as Baby is a slight step up from little creature, haha


	13. On the Hunt

Since Riordan's funeral was scheduled for the next morning – and dawn was only a few hours away – it was decided that Alistair and his contingent would stay the rest of the night at Revanloch.

Safely relocated in the guest quarters, Flora sat up against the pillows and gazed around in mild amusement at the new sleeping arrangements. Chanter Devotia lay snoring on the pallet beside the door, while the Knight-Captain glowered into the shadows from nearby. Gannorn had not stopped frowning since the debacle in the chapel; he had _deeply_ disapproved of Flora's nocturnal wanderings.

Teagan was making himself comfortable on a pallet before the hearth. Unlike his older brother, who was accustomed to the luxuries afforded to his status; the bann was well-used to sleeping in more humble circumstances. During the defence of Redcliffe, he had spent a week sleeping on the unforgiving surface of a Chantry pew.

"This is like being back in a Circle dormitory," Flora said into the shadows, sneezing as she caught scent of one of Leliana's more pungent unguent creams. "At Kinloch, there were eight of us to a room."

"Maker's Breath, Lel," Alistair muttered, stripping down to shirt and smalls without ceremony beside the bed. "What's that stuff you're putting on your face? It smells like what I use to clean my sword."

The bard sniffed, replacing the lid on the small pot and placing it delicately on the side-table.

"Well, excuse _me_ if I don't want the stresses of the Blight to leave permanent indentations on my forehead," she retorted, clambering into bed beside Flora and pulling the coverlets up to her chin. "You'll regret not following my skincare regime, Alistair, when you look forty years old by next Satinalia."

"Good," replied Alistair frankly as he lifted an arm for his former sister-warden. "I need to look older. Did you see this beard growing in, Lo?"

"Mm," Flora replied, grateful for the solid muscle of her best friend's chest against her back. "I like it."

Alistair kissed the top of her head, wishing for a single, fervent moment that he could stay curled up in bed with Flora for the next three and a half weeks.

"I can't be the _only_ man on the Royal Council without facial hair."

Down on the floorboards, Teagan eventually managed to find a relatively comfortable position. Leaning over on one elbow, he paused before blowing out the candle; a rueful smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"Alistair, this is only going to fuel _more _tavern songs about you. In bed with two beautiful redheads?"

Alistair's ensuing flush was hidden by the shadows, while Flora sat up and made wide eyes towards Teagan. The bann let out a soft, quickly muffled bark of laughter, reaching for a nearby tankard.

"Sorry, poppet. I thought you'd gone to sleep."

Flora slid back down into Alistair's arms, tucking her head beneath his chin. His fingers felt warm and rough against her own; the calloused skin a legacy of years grasping a sword hilt. He moved his other hand beneath the blankets, edging his fingers underneath her Theirin-crested nightshirt.

For a moment, Flora wondered at his boldness – _surely he wouldn't attempt anything with Leliana beside them, two Templars at the door and his uncle on a bedroll by the hearth? _and then his palm slid around her belly, cupping the firm mound of flesh. With gentle, wondering fingers, he explored the shape of the child that they had inadvertently made together; his breath warm against the back of her neck.

Flora settled back into the circle of his arms, grimly resolving that she would be less reckless in the future.

_It's Alistair's baby too. I have to look after it._

Meanwhile, Alistair was breathing unsteadily, clutching his lover beneath the blankets as a myriad of increasingly terrible scenarios ran through his head. First, he pictured the assassin's blade plunging into Flora's heart as she lifted helpless fingers to her ravaged breast. Then he pictured a pair of gloved hands emerging from the shadows, only to slip a garrotte silently around her slender throat.

_An arrow fired from the ramparts as she went on one of her nocturnal wanderings._

_Poison secreted into her flask; no way to neutralise it._

Terror gripped Ferelden's king and he drew Flora even closer; a soft groan sliding from between his lips. He wound his fingers in her nightshirt, in the thick tangles of her hair, anchoring his sister-warden to his side.

Curious, she twisted her head to gaze up at him, her pale eyes reflecting the dim embers in the hearth. Alistair leaned forward and put his mouth to Flora's ear, his heart thudding painfully against his ribs.

"I wish we could just leave, baby," he whispered, directing his words away from where Leliana lay snoring on Flora's other side.

"Leave? Leave where?" Flora's reply was interspersed with a yawn.

"_Anywhere. _Somewhere where you'd be safe. It's _my _fault that we have to stay here; this blasted crown."

Flora pushed herself up on a sleepy elbow and pressed her lips to his cheek, hoping to lend her brother-warden some reassurance.

"We're not going anywhere," she whispered back, sternly. "We don't run from _Howes_, Alistair."

Alistair gritted his teeth; he would have praised such bravado if it had come from anybody other than his pregnant and utterly defenceless mistress.

"But I need to keep you safe," he said forlornly, aware that Leliana was probably listening to every word. "Even the thought of you being hurt – of being in _pain _– it kills me, Lo."

"Well, _don't_ think about it then," Flora replied, with Herring practicality. "I have a lot of people around me who won't let me get hurt. Like Leliana."

"That's if you actually bother waking me _up _before you go on these little night-time wanderings," hissed the bard, shooting Flora a malevolent look through the darkness. "Ensure that you do so next time, _ma petite!"_

* * *

The next morning dawned grey and drizzly, dampness hanging over Revanloch monastery like a shroud. It seemed fitting weather for a funeral; the sky an insipid grey and veiled in clouds. The sun itself refused to show its face, as though aware that the mortal remains of Ferelden's last senior Grey Warden were being sent to the Maker that evening.

In light of the previous night's broach of security, the Knight-Commander had posted more Templar soldiers to each entrance and exit; as well as increasing the frequency of patrols. This only heightened the similarity of Revanloch to a _particularly_ ugly prison; the rampart walls seeming all the higher for the armoured men atop them.

Zevran took his leave from king and Cousland beneath the lofty stone archway that marked the main entrance into Revanloch. Chilly rivulets dripped from the damp Chantry banners hanging overhead; puddles expanding beneath the boots of the grim-faced Templars posted at each gatepost.

The elf hated the rain – especially the cold and misty Ferelden drizzle, so unlike the humid showers he was accustomed to in Antiva. There was no shelter to be found beneath the archway; the stone was so old and crumbling that rainwater dribbled through regardless.

Flora, a northerner who barely noticed the rain, was standing anxiously in the middle of a puddle. Alistair was at her side, the water-soaked fur collar of his tunic plastered unpleasantly to the back of his neck.

"And you'll send word the moment that you find anything?" he clarified, hazel eyes fixed earnestly on Zevran's own ink-dark stare. "Even the most minor clue. I want to know which Howe sent this assassin, and where I can find them."

"Naturally, _mi rey," _murmured the former Crow, shooting a malevolent look up at the rain-sodden sky. "I do not expect it to be an overly difficult task. Are you sure you would not prefer a head sent to you in a box?"

Alistair appeared to consider the possibility for a moment, before gritting his teeth and replying in the negative.

"No," he said, reluctantly. "I want to question this whoreson myself. Make an example of him. String him up from the palace wall by the bollocks, ideally."

Flora glanced sideways at her kind-hearted brother-warden; who occasionally displayed the ruthless streak that manifested in all Theirins. At times like this, the vein of Marician brutality was laid bare, sharp and silvered, beneath the gentle chivalry of his outer demeanour.

"Zev," she said, returning her attention to the elf. "Please, be careful. I don't want you to get hurt because of me."

Zevran almost laughed out loud at the thought of suffering injury from an assassin who could not even hit a defenceless and motionless target. Catching sight of Flora's solemn, anxious expression; he suppressed the smile before it could pull at the corners of his mouth.

"I promise I will be _exceptionally _careful, _mi reina_," he replied, with a gravity to match hers.

"You don't have to do this if you don't want to!"

This amused the elf, a soft, throaty-edged bark of laughter escaping his throat as he injected deliberate casualness into his response.

"Ah, but I must continue to make myself _useful_ to you, _eh, mi sirenita? _Otherwise, you may decide that I am no longer worthy of association."

The brilliance of the smile that followed - dazzling white teeth set against rich tan skin – was an attempt to disguise the melancholic timbre of the elf's words. It took Flora several moments to comprehend Zevran's meaning; but when she eventually did, her eyes widened in bemusement.

"'_Useful to me'?" _she repeated, slightly, incredulous. "You're my friend. You don't need to be _useful. _You could sit around like a _jellyfish _all day, and I'd be grateful for your company."

Zevran looked at her for a long moment, something heated and indecipherable in his dark stare. There was a slight gleam to the rich mahogany of his iris that he quickly hid with another charming grin; extending his arms as a distraction.

"Here, _nena," _he declared, brightness in his voice to disguise a tremor of emotion that only the likes of Leliana would have been able to perceive. "Unlike your brother-warden, you are not yet so intimidating that I am afraid to embrace you."

Flora let him fold her against his chest, the elf standing just tall enough to rest his chin atop her head. She gripped his leathers, the material fitted too tight to his skin for her fingers to gain much purchase. She felt Zevran exhale, slightly unsteadily, one hand coming up to cup the back of her head.

"I promise you, I will find out who did this," he murmured into Flora's ear, lips brushing her hair. "I've buried two people close to my heart already; I won't do it again."

Unbeknownst to Flora, the elf's eyes had lifted to Alistair, who was standing patiently to one side. A silent bolt of mutual understanding passed between them; two very different men united in perfect accord.

_I'll find the Howe that did this._

_And I'll keep her safe._

Accompanied by the expected pat on the rump, Zevran gave Flora a peck on the cheek and released her, the laughing brightness settled back over his face once more.

"Alright, _mi amors, _I will send news very soon. _Mi_ _florita, _take care of yourself, hm? And I hope, Alistair, that you can find a few quiet moments together in a dark cupboard or lonely pew. _Te veo luego, queridos."_

A flush rose beneath Alistair's olive cheeks as Flora smiled, slightly vaguely, unsure what the elf was alluding to. As Zevran swung himself swiftly onto the saddle, she was distracted by an odd sense of melancholy that pulled at her heart.

This strange wistfulness congealed into a more tangible dejection as the elf steered the horse's head towards the coastal track that led back towards the city. It was more identifiable in this solid state, and Flora subsequently swallowed the lump that rose in her throat.

"All our friends are going to leave, aren't they?" she said quietly, watching horse and rider shrink as they rode into the distance. "They all have their own lives to live. Wynne might go back to the Circle. Morrigan to the Wilds. I'm sure Leliana has got plans for her future, once she's finishing babysitting me."

Alistair gave a nod, injecting cheeriness into his reply.

"I can't wait to exchange letters with Morrigan. I bet she'll be an avid correspondent!"

Flora made no reply, dropping her gaze glumly to her boots. Alistair glanced at her for a moment, then slung his arm around her shoulders and drew her to his side.

"I'm sure that they'll be back to visit, my love. Once you've gone through something like the Fifth Blight together, well – those bonds are not easily broken."

He planted a kiss on top of her head, and she pressed her cheek to his arm, grateful for the reassurance.

"Besides, I'm not going anywhere; I'm stuck in Denerim. It should be _me _worried about _you _leaving, my darling!"

Flora turned an appalled face on him, grey eyes even wider in her indignation.

"Where would I go, without you?" she demanded, mildly incredulous.

A beaming Alistair gathered Flora up in his arms, intending to ignore the frowning presence of Chanter Devotia and Knight-Captain Gannorn and kiss his best friend until the last scrap of air had been stolen from her lungs.

For several moments, the king embraced his mistress beneath the stone archway; the crumbling edifice of Revanloch rising up around them as the gulls shrieked and wheeled in the air overhead. The drizzle continued unabated, a cloud-shrouded sky casting Ferelden in muted tones of ash and stone. In the distance, the city of Denerim could just be glimpsed clinging to the clifftops; the Royal Palace perched on its high, supervisory ridge.

Flora smiled up at her brother-warden, her mouth tender and flushed after his ardent attention. Alistair reached down to touch the side of her face, inexplicably fixated on the dimple that creased her cheek. He was about to duck his head to kiss her again, when the sound of approaching hoofbeats drew his attention.

The Royal Guard stationed at the gate posts stiffened, the keener-eyed soldiers spotting the glint of armour and weaponry. There were a group of five or six riders – mostly men, save for two – heading towards the monastery; sporting no discernible banner to declare their allegiance.

Flora, who had slightly better eyesight than Alistair, squinted at the garb of the soldiers sat astride the saddles, her brow furrowing.

"Alistair," she said, slowly. "Is that… are they wearing…?"

As the mounted party drew nearer, Alistair inhaled a sharp intake of breath; his own hazel eyes widening as he took in the navy and silver striped tunics.

"Maker's Breath," the king said, astounded. "Is it – are they _Grey Wardens?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Orlais Wardens here to party! Where were you two weeks ago when the Darkspawn horde were marching on the city?! Lol. I imagine they're going to have a loooot of questions! But yes, they've arrived to attend Riordan's funeral. We're going to meet their Commander, and Clarel, and the Orlesian Warden Origin who's going to take over the Ferelden Wardens – since both Alistair and Flora aren't technically Wardens any longer.
> 
> I imagine that Zevran always would try and make himself useful to a Warden and companions… since he was brought up to always be valuable/serve a purpose. I think he's probably not used to someone wanting his company!


	14. The Grey Wardens of Orlais

For the best part of a year, Flora and Alistair had known themselves to be the last Wardens in Ferelden. Even when Riordan had joined them in Denerim; it had still just been the three of them pitted against the swelling mass of the Darkspawn hordes. Although Flora had known that there were Grey Wardens _outside_ Ferelden, she had not quite been able to comprehend their existence.

Now they stood together beneath the crumbling entrance to Revanloch with the sea-gulls wheeling and shrieking above them; watching the soldiers dressed in silver and blue ride ever closer on the cliff-top road.

The Royal Guard, who had gripped their pikes in readiness at the approach of an armed party, glanced sideways at their king; waiting for his instruction. Stunned into silence, Alistair made a quick gesture for them to stand down.

The riders came to a halt, their weary horses bearing the signs of a long journey. The deferential Chantry stable boys came scuttling out to take the reins; sneaking glances at the silver griffon emblazoned on the soldiers' breastplates.

Their leader, a man in his forties with tousled tawny hair and sharp, whisky-brown eyes, dismounted with a grunt onto the gravel. Despite the fine lines of age cobwebbing the corners of his mouth, the man moved with a militaristic precision. Beside him, a sinewy, strong woman with greying hair cropped close to her skull dropped to the ground, calling out something in an unfamiliar tongue to her companions.

Flora felt Alistair stiffen reflexively beside her, drawing himself up to his full six foot and several inches in height. The Royal Guard stationed at the gates of Revanloch came to flank the king, their eyes keen as blades behind their closed-face helmets.

"They're Orlesian," Alistair murmured, watching as the stable boys led the horses away. "That's a Val Royeaux accent."

Flora gazed at the strangers, thoughtfully. She had only ever known a handful of Orlesians – their companion Leliana, whom Flora adored without reservation, and Arl Eamon's highly-strung wife Isolde, whom Flora was mildly terrified of.

The other Wardens seemed to defer to the man with tousled golden hair, the fine lines trellised across his face a contrast to the raw power of his muscular body. The commander strode forward, coming to a pause just before Revanloch's crumbling entrance. The Royal Guard tightened their grips on their pikes; inching a fraction closer.

"Your Majesty," the Orlesian declared in mellifluous tones, inclining his head in courteous acknowledgement of Alistair's golden band. "I am Yvon Cuvillier, Warden-Commander of Orlais. This is my lieutenant, Clarel de Chanson."

He gestured to the lean woman at his side, who bowed her shaven head with an easy confidence.

Alistair returned the greeting neutrally, his instinct to welcome fellow Wardens tempered by his position as political leader of a rival nation. Flora, meanwhile, was oscillating between delight and disbelief; still not quite able to comprehend that other Wardens even existed.

_Where were you three weeks ago?! _she wanted to demand, biting her lip to stop herself from blurting the question out. _When the Darkspawn were swarming the city walls?_

Yvon glanced from Alistair to Flora, and it was clear that he had no idea who she was. His gaze returned to the king, and he cleared his throat.

"Your Majesty," the commander said, clearly accustomed to speaking with royalty. "May we first congratulate Ferelden on the defeat of the Fifth Blight? If your borders had not been sealed, Orlais would have been quick to offer assistance."

Flora thought privately that they _could _have come anyway; after all, had Riordan not managed to infiltrate the country? The next moment, she realised that the senior warden had been captured after mere days by Rendon Howe, and had subsequently spent months in captivity.

Alistair inclined his head with a grunt, his nostrils flaring in displeasure at their failure to acknowledge Flora's presence.

"We received a letter from our brother, Riordan, who perished during the efforts to defeat the Archdemon," Yvon continued, earnestly. "We have official business with the lady Florence Cousland, whom we understand stuck the final blow."

If the commander was perplexed as to _how _exactly the lady Cousland had survived after delivering the death-blow, he hid it well. However, what _was _apparent was that he had no idea who Flora was. Yvon Cuvillier had looked at her and seen merely a teenaged girl - visibly weighed down with child - and proceeded to dismiss her as some mistress of the king. Flora's diminutive frame - and the beauty that seemed to have been cultivated by luxurious years spent in silken, perfumed halls - further denied her identity.

The drizzle increased in tempo and ferocity; one of the junior Wardens nudged his companion and muttered something about _Fereldan weather._

"Well, no _official business_ is going to be conducted today," replied Alistair, a steely vein running through the words. "The lady Cousland and I will be attending Riordan's funeral, which you're… you're welcome to attend. And I _also_ want to get her out of this rain."

There came a clatter as a startled Warden in the rear of the group dropped his sword onto the flagstones. Yvon's tawny eyebrows shot upwards into his hairline as he surveyed Flora.

"_You're_ the lady Cousland?" he asked, the disbelief shot clear through the enquiry. _"You!?" _

Flora was already used to such a reaction, and no longer found it insulting. She confirmed her identity with a nod, sensing Alistair shifting from foot to foot beside her. It was clear that he was indignant on her behalf, but taking his cue from her on how to react.

"Mm," the youngest Cousland replied, amiably. "Hello."

The Orlesian Warden-Commander glanced at his second, Clarel, who looked equally dumbstruck. Alistair let out a small sound of impatience under his breath, and this seemed to break through Yvon's cloud of astonishment.

"Apologies, my lady," the senior Warden replied, forcing some steadiness back into his voice. "It's just – I was not expecting you to be so… so _young. _And – forgive my forwardness – are you_ with child?"_

Flora nodded, and the man's tawny eyes widened even further; disbelief writ naked across his face.

"Forgive me," he repeated, struggling to keep the incredulity from infusing his reply. "I... I have… _many_ questions."

"Which can wait until tomorrow," interjected Alistair, firmly. "I'm sure they've got rooms within the monastery to house you. Come on, my dear; let's get out of the rain."

Flora could feel the eyes of the half-dozen Wardens fixed between her shoulder blades as she let Alistair steer her back towards the monastery. Knight-Captain Gannorn and Chanter Devotia followed several yards in their wake, quiet and watchful.

"They were looking at me like I had three heads," Flora said, feeling rivulets of water from her rain-soaked hair dripping down the back of her neck. "Everyone always looks so _confused _when they see me. I don't know what they were expecting?"

"Someone ten feet tall," Alistair replied more cheerfully, happier now that they had sought sanctuary from the rain. In truth, Revanloch's interior was almost as damp as its exterior. "Who shoots flames from their eyes, most likely."

Flora blinked, quiet for several moments as she envisioned herself in such a terrifying format.

"I wouldn't have fit in the tent," she said, at last.

"Eh?"

"I wouldn't have fit in the tent if I were ten feet tall," Flora repeated, patiently. "I would have slept with my legs sticking out of the tent flap. You know, when we were travelling around. Creatures of the night would have _CHEWED __on my feet."_

Alistair grinned down at his former sister-warden. Impulsively bending to close the foot between their heights, he pressed an affectionate kiss to the top of her head.

"And we couldn't have had that," he murmured, glancing down appreciatively at Flora's booted knees beneath her tunic. "Not… not when those lovely legs should be wrapped around _me_ instead."

Unfortunately, Alistair's deliberate lowering in tone was not quite muffled enough to avoid detection. Even as Flora cackled at him, they heard a cough of menacing disapproval from behind.

"'_And the magisters did look upon, with lustful eye/That which ought to remain sacred and inviolable,'" _intoned a stern Chanter Devotia.

Alistair shot a look of mild alarm over his shoulder, eyebrows rising as he took in the Chanter's scowl.

"I have to ask," he said, earnestly. "Are you related to Chantry Mother Philippa, of the Bournshire monastery? Just because she used to glare at me in _exactly the same way _when I was a recruit there_."_

The Chanter narrowed her eyes, clearly unappreciative of Alistair's flippant retort.

Flora was trying not to laugh - she admired her best friend for his quick wit in such circumstances, since she never could think of anything clever to say – and then her gaze fell on the pair of vast wooden doors that marked the entrance to the monastery chapel. She envisioned Riordan lying alone on his cold slab near the altar, and swallowed a small lump of sadness that rose suddenly to her throat.

Alistair glanced down at his lover, then bowed to press softer, kinder lips against her forehead.

"Right," he murmured, quietly. "Let's get ready."

* * *

Death in Herring came frequently enough that it was not especially commemorated. Although – thanks to their resident mender – disease and injury were not a concern; the sea claimed its fair share of souls each season. In addition to the tithe it took from the men of the northern coast, bodies from broken ships often washed up on the Hag's Teeth reef; like some macabre reverse offering.

If the sea did deign to return a body, then there was no question of burning the traditional pyre – driftwood was kept as fuel to stave off the cruel bite of winter. The romantic notion of sending a corpse off to sea in a burning vessel was to be found in legend only; boats were a precious commodity.

Instead, brief prayers would be muttered for the dead within Herring's diminutive, sandy-floored Chantry. A more formal service might occur if there happened to be a visiting Sister present, but this was a rare occasion. Bodies were wrapped in rope to keep their limbs from flailing, then taken unceremoniously out to sea in the bottom of a fisherman's craft. Once they had reached the deep waters beyond the reef, the body would be weighted with rocks and lowered into the Waking Sea. This was far from a Chantry-sanctioned burial, but the grim-faced villagers of Herring had scant time to spare for tradition or sentiment. Flora was therefore unused to the elaborate ritual associated with Chantry funerary tradition.

Up in the chamber, she had been astounded when Leliana had informed her of the necessity of _changing clothing_. The bard had donned a crimson robe, the colour so rich and deep that it almost appeared black against the candlelight; with a sheer black veil worn over the upper part of her face. Her lips, painted scarlet to match her robe, shone rich and lustrous against the plain material.

Flora, who had lived in one threadbare woollen jersey for the majority of her childhood, found the concept of donning _mourning clothes _a novelty. She had reached for her only piece of dark clothing – a navy tunic edged with olive – and Leliana reached out to stop her.

"It is tradition for women associated with royalty to wear pale colours in mourning," the bard murmured, her expression obscured behind the veil. "Here, _ma petite, _let me help you into this."

_This _turned out to be a robe, to Flora's dismay. It was a pale dusky pink, unapologetically feminine and the antithesis of her usual plain, austere choice of dress.

"Do I _have_ to wear it?" she complained, even when Leliana was drawing the laces closed at the back. "How am I _royalty?"_

"You're Alistair's... mistress," Leliana countered, reaching for the hairbrush and working it through the tangled length of Flora's hair. "You're carrying his child. People will have expectations."

Flora sighed, eyeing her reflection dubiously in the warped surface of the mirror. She could just about glimpse the two Templars flanking the door – as usual, they had watched her wash and dress with a detached, cool professionalism.

"Everyone always has expectations of me," she replied, gloomily. "Nonstop, ever since I left the Circle. I'm sure I'm going to do something stupid and let people down."

Leliana let out a _tsk _of disapproval under her breath, letting Flora's hair hang loose in thick, dark red ropes.

"Have more faith in yourself, _ma crevette," _she murmured, retrieving the sheer veil and bracing herself for Flora's vociferous opposition. "Let me put this on, and don't protest."

To Leliana's surprise, the young Cousland was unusually placid, letting the bard anchor the veil to her hair with a myriad of pins. The gossamer-light fabric fell over Flora's face; and Leliana wondered at the lack of protest as she went to retrieve the matching pale slippers.

A moment later, the bard's eyes narrowed in suspicion, and she twitched the veil aside.

Flora beamed, a cheese sandwich lodged firmly between her teeth.

"This thing would have been useful," the Cousland replied, her mouth full. "For secret snacking in class at the Circle. I could eat a three course dinner under here."

"_Florence! _If you get crumbs on your gown… _I despair. Don't touch anything!"_

A short while later, Flora took one look at the pretty, embroidered silk slippers, and flat-out refused to wear them. Leliana, in the face of such mulish obstinacy, decided not to press the issue. Instead, Flora retrieved her own beloved boots; in which she had walked across half of Ferelden without a single blister.

"From the knees up: princess. From the knees down: _peasant," _Leliana retorted, glancing quickly at Flora to see how she would respond.

Flora looked supremely un-bothered, unceremoniously hoisting the skirt up around her thighs to tighten her knee-strapping. Leliana groaned, dragging a hand over the sheer veil masking her face.

"Please don't hoick your skirts up like an employee of the Pearl," the bard begged, reaching out to flatten an errant strand of Flora's hair. "You aren't _showing off your wares, _you're a _lady."_

"_Madame du Poisson!" _Flora said, remembering the cognomen that Zevran had ascribed to her during their infiltration of Denerim. "Ha!"

"_Oui_, come on then, Miss Fish."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So Leliana is trying her best to slooooowly make Flora more comfortable with becoming Fereldan royalty, haha! Flora still really, really hates dresses – nobody wore dresses in Herring. So impractical!
> 
> Bit of trivia: white was the colour of mourning for Medieval noblewomen and queens.
> 
> I made up Yvon Cuvillier, since I don't think Clarel was Commander of the Orlesian Wardens in 9:30 Dragon. I heard she goes a bit crazy in Inquisition?


	15. Farewell to Riordan

The strange quartet – bard, lady, and lady's Templar escort – began to make their way through Ravenloch's labyrinthine passages. The guest quarters were located in a separate wing to the main chapel, and just as they reached the gallery between east and west, the bells began to ring overhead.

A flock of sparrows soared from the belfry in alarm as the seven great bells rocked back and forth; emitting the low, sonorous ring of mourning. Their plaintive clamour was taken up by the smaller bell-towers, until the entire monastery seemed to reverberate with metallic dissonance.

Flora was suddenly grateful for the veil over her face, not entirely sure that she would be able to maintain her solemn composure in the hours ahead. She had managed to refrain from dwelling on Riordan's funeral up until that point; deliberately distracting herself with thoughts of assassins and Orlesians, _Madame du Poisson _and glowering Templars.

Yet now, with the clarion cry of Revanloch's bells ringing about the mouldering corridors, Flora had no choice but to turn her mind to upcoming events. She had never been to a proper Andrastian funeral before, and was not wholly sure what it entailed.

_The only pyre I've ever attended was that of Cailan. And that wasn't exactly a Royal send-off; it was us huddled around a bonfire built from the broken remains of Ostagar._

_Afterwards, she and Alistair had lain together for the first time; gritted teeth on a damp bedroll, the ashes of a dead king still caught in their hair._

Now they were parting ways for a final time with Riordan, the senior Warden who had almost come to represent Duncan himself in Flora's mind. She recalled first meeting the Highever native in Rendon Howe's dungeon; where Riordan had been held for six months after crossing the Fereldan border to investigate rumours of a Blight. Despite his weak and half-starved condition, he had offered her words of comfort on that terrible first night; and launched himself in vain at the guards when they had come to deliver her to the Templar's lyrium brand.

_I'm sorry, Riordan _she thought to herself guiltily, falling slightly behind Leliana as the bard glided in stately manner down the corridor. _I shouldn't think of you as another Duncan. You were a great man in your own right._

Flora bowed her head, gazing at her booted feet as she followed in Leliana's wake. She could hear the Templars several yards behind, their metal-clad footsteps echoing against the flagstones.

Alistair was waiting outside the entrance to the chapel, clad in dark leathers and sporting an uncharacteristically sombre expression. Duncan's sword hung at his side, the silverite length gleaming despite the encompassing gloom.

"Everyone else is inside," he said, his gaze falling on Leliana. "They won't start without us."

The king ducked his head to peer around Leliana's velvet-clad form; eyes widening imperceptibly as he took in Flora standing quiet and miserable on the flagstones.

Striding forward, Alistair lifted the veil to see his former sister-warden's face, pressing a kiss to her lips as her sad grey eyes settled on him.

"You look beautiful, Lo," he murmured, nudging Flora's cheek affectionately with a thumb. "Are you alright?"

She nodded, not quite trusting in herself to give a verbal reply. Alistair's eyes searched her face a moment longer, fingers lingering against her cheek; then he let the veil fall and offered her his arm.

"Ready?"

Although Flora was not quite sure what she was ready _for, _she gave a nod regardless, tightening her grip around his elbow.

Then two Templars were opening the doors and the great, hollow expanse of the Chantry billowed up before them. It seemed darker than usual; the candles failing to make much headway against the persistent gloom. At the far end, beside the altar and Riordan's plinth, Andraste's flame burned in defiance of the darkness.

As they proceeded down the central aisle, Flora realised the cause of the additional layer of shadow. The stained-glass windows lining the walls had been shrouded with thin grey veils, allowing only a fraction of the weak Fereldan sun to filter through. The purpose was seemingly to focus the audience's attention on the eternally smouldering brazier at the end of the aisle; which cast an inconstant, flickering warmth over the faces of those sitting in the front pews.

There were just over a dozen people in attendance; all of whom rose to their feet at Alistair's entrance. The Orlesian Grey Wardens – headed by the lion-headed Yvon and his second, Clarel – were clad in full silver and blue regalia; expressions solemn as they gazed upon their fallen brother-warden. Both Guerrins were there, clad in muted tones of their family livery. Finian stood at Teagan's side, his remaining eye swivelling anxiously towards his sister. Knight-Commander and Chantry Mother were already standing at either side of the plinth; the former having regained some measure of composure after suffering Alistair's incandescent wrath the previous night. Flora's vision was not impeded by the veil, but she clutched her best friend's arm with increasing tightness as they headed towards the altar.

Riordan's body looked much the same as it had done when Flora had visited him the previous night. Irreparable damage had been done after he had leapt from Fort Drakon's highest tower, sacrificing his life to bring the dragon to the ground; the cobblestones had broken near-every bone in his body. Yet despite the massive internal injury, his face appeared grave and peaceful, greying hair brushed neatly around the stiff collar of his tunic.

Alistair felt his former sister-warden's grip tighten on his arm, and reached up with a hand to provide an additional layer of reassurance. His large palm, strong and calloused, settled securely over Flora's fingers, anchoring them together.

The Royal pew at the front had been left empty in preparation for Ferelden's king and his mistress. Flora glanced to one side as she sat down, noticing Arl Leonas standing in the shadows of a nearby pillar. He nodded softly in greeting and she blinked at him through the veil; unsure whether or not she was allowed to _wave._

The next moment, the arl shifted slightly and Flora caught sight of a short, stocky figure at his side. Her eyes widened as she recognised Oghren, dressed in his best attempt at formal wear. The dwarf's orange hair had been parted in the centre and slicked down, his moustache neatly combed. Sensing Flora's stare, Oghren raised a subtle hand to her, lifting his chin. Flora smiled at him, inexplicably touched by the dwarf's presence.

The Orlesian Warden-Commander bowed his head to acknowledge Flora's arrival; fascination visibly writ across his refined, fine-lined features. Flora knew that he would be confused on no less than _three_ counts: on her survival – she had slain the Archdemon and survived, she had no discernible aura of taint, and she had seemingly defied the Order's curse of underlying infertility.

The Chantry Mother gestured for them all to sit, ascending the low pulpit to begin the service. As she began to intone the opening verses of the Chant, Flora let the familiar words wash over her; stifling a yawn beneath the veil.

_I wonder if Riordan had a family? Oh, he said that he did, a long time ago. I suppose they aren't around any more, then._

_I wonder if Duncan had any family?_

_Stop thinking about Duncan, _she told herself firmly, missing the chiding reprimand of her spirits. _This is to remember Riordan._

The Chantry Mother began a sermon on how the souls of the faithful were drawn to the Maker's side, like a fisherman pulling in a net. Even this marine reference was not enough to gain Flora's attention; she spared the regally clad priestess a brief glance before musing on Riordan once again.

_He found the Grey Warden cache in the city. He made Alistair and I look the part; it was the first time we had worn the silver and blue since Ostagar._

_I think it was the first time that anybody really took me seriously, when I came downstairs in the breastplate and the tunic._

The crowd replied with the expected responses, their voices echoing to the shadowed ceiling. Flora, less accustomed to such a formal service, did not join in – neither, understandably, did Oghren. Despite his unfamiliarity with Chantry tradition, the dwarf was standing stiff and straight-backed, his gaze clear, and unclouded by drink.

Alistair was also only half-listening to the words. He had heard the rites for the dead a dozen times over the past few weeks, while attending the great pyres on the Alamarri plains. His mind was on Duncan; the corners of his mouth turning down as he recalled that his commander still had no marker or memorial to commemorate his passing. Grimly, he resolved to speak to Eamon about the possibility of such after the funeral.

At the prompt of the Chantry Mother, the attendees rose to their feet once again. As she began the opening bars of a hymn, Alistair glanced down at his best friend as she stood dutifully at his side. Although the veil concealed much of Flora's face, he could just see the pale grey eyes and grave turn of the lips; her natural solemnity serving her well in this instance. He saw her mouth opening and closing and knew that she was miming, to spare those around her the trauma of listening to her tuneless voice.

Alistair suddenly felt ashamed of all the times that he, Leliana and Zevran had teased Flora about her singing; even to the point when they had fashioned ear plugs from scraps of cotton. Flora had been genuinely shocked to learn that her voice was so grating – it seemed that the villagers of Herring had never informed her of such.

Ducking his head and pressing his lips to the silk tulle of the veil, Alistair whispered throatily in Flora's ear.

"You can sing too, sweetheart."

"Nobody wants to hear me singing," she whispered back, then smiled briefly up at him. "And I don't know the words."

The king gazed down at her, realising suddenly that he could – _so easily! - _have been attending Flora's own funeral service, if circumstances had been but a little different. Fear clamped his belly like a vice, and he put an arm around his lover's shoulders, drawing her close to his side and pressing another kiss to her veiled head. Flora reached up and wound her fingers into Alistair's own; as always, ready to anchor herself to him without question.

The hymn came to an end, and those gathered to pay their respects to Riordan sat down once more. Flora fidgeted on the bench, unable to get comfortable on the unforgiving surface of the wooden pew. Her lower back was aching, a sharp muscular pain that dug uncomfortably into the base of her spine. She shifted from one side of her rear to the other, bending forward slightly in a vain attempt to appease the throbbing.

The Orlesian Warden-Commander rose to his feet at the Chantry Mother's encouraging gesture, striding towards the plinth with sombre expression. After gazing at Riordan's still face for a long moment, he turned towards the small gathering and cleared his throat.

"Warden Riordan has answered the highest calling asked of any member of our Order," he said, the words emerging coated in honeyed Orlesian tones. "By giving his life in the fight against the Archdemon, he has guaranteed his place by the Maker's side."

Flora swallowed, suddenly feeling a lodestone of sadness forming in her belly. She was uncertain whether it was due to her own grief over the senior warden's death; or a deliberate prodding of her humours caused by the babe.

_Stop unbalancing me, _she thought furiously to her abdomen._ I don't want to cry. I'm already in pain because of you._

"Riordan joined the Wardens of Orlais because he wished to do his duty by Thedas," Warden-Commander Cullivar continued, his voice reverberating over the audience. "He knew that the threat of a Blight overwhelmed any petty division of country border."

"Typical Orlesian, to refer to a border as _petty," _Eamon murmured in Teagan's ear, as the younger Guerrin gave a soft grunt of agreement.

Flora let her eyes drift sideways to the other Wardens, still fascinated by their very _existence_. Yvon's lieutenant, Clarel, was sitting as though she were still standing, her spine so rigid that it did not touch the back of the pew. Her hair was cropped so close to her skull that the pink skin showed through, and her face was ablaze with conviction.

The Orlesian Warden-Commander continued to talk, but his accent was so heavy and his voice so formal that Flora was unable to understand half of what he said. Wishing to distract herself from her aching back, she let her gaze meander past Clarel, across to the only other female Warden in the Orlesian company. This woman was some years younger than her counterpart – possibly in her mid-thirties – and very tall, matching Arl Leonas in height. She had a lean, sinewy build and a hawkish face; her features striking rather than conventionally beautiful. Long, dark hair was restrained by a tight, precisely wrapped bun, and an envious Flora wondered as to the secret of such control.

She returned her eyes to Riordan, focusing on his calm, waxen face. It was odd to see him clean-shaven, since the Warden had always had a layer of dark stubble covering his cheeks and jawline.

_I suppose hair stops growing after you die, _she thought, wincing slightly as the pressure on her spine increased. _Ow, stop it! That really hurts._

Yvon returned to his seat, head bowed respectfully. Leliana rose to her feet, gliding like a dancer across the flagstones. Her stately passage drew all eyes to her; the bard well-aware of her audience as she slid the veil back to reveal her face.

"This is a centuries-old mourning song," the bard murmured, the Orlesian in her dialect emphasised in the presence of her countrymen. "It was first rumoured to have been sung after the martyrdom of Andraste Herself. Please, stand with me."

The congregation rose to their feet in dutiful response. Flora felt her knee give a twinge of pain; simultaneously, the stone ceiling lurched in a sea-swell of dizziness. She gulped and closed her eyes very tightly, the Andrastian flame a glowing blur behind her eyelids.

When Flora opened them again, the world had righted itself and Leliana had begun to sing. Her sweet, mellifluous voice echoed about the Chantry, rising to the vaulted ceiling and lifting the small hairs on the necks of her audience.

"'_No harp delights with glad music; no good hawk now soars through the halls, nor swift horses clatter in courtyards…'"_

_Leliana really does sing beautifully_, reflected Flora as she shifted from foot to foot in an effort to relieve the soreness of her ankles._ Her voice is lovely enough to penetrate the Veil. I hope Riordan can hear it, somehow._

_I hope he's proud of Alistair and I._

_Why do I feel like I know he is?_

To Flora's slight surprise, she felt the delicate silk _tulle_ of the veil sticking to her cheeks. Lifting her fingers to touch the skin, she realised that she was _crying_, though she had barely felt the tears slip from beneath her eyelashes.

Grateful for the cover provided by the delicate material, Flora sniffed as quietly as possible; just about resisting the urge to blow her nose on fine-spun silk that was probably worth more than the collective value of Herring.

Standing at Flora's other side, Leonas glanced down at her; narrowing his eyes to squint through the gauzy surface of the veil. Without drawing attention from those around them, the arl retrieved a square of linen from his sleeve and pressed it onto Flora's free hand. Taking it gratefully, she blew her nose surreptitiously beneath the filmy fabric.

As Leliana finished the last poignant refrain, she made an elegant bow to Riordan's prone body; gliding gracefully back towards the pew as though each foot was barely making contact with the ground.

The Chantry Mother lifted her arms reverently towards the Andrastian pyre, and this gesture seemed to draw the ritual to a close. Eamon rose to his feet, the other nobles present followed suit.

"The pyre will be lit at sunset," the arl murmured in response to a question from Leonas. "We'll have time to return to Denerim and meet with the stonemasons about the rebuilding of the guild-house."

Trying to avoid a repeat of the dizziness from earlier, Flora lifted herself more cautiously from the bench. Her attention was caught by the Orlesian Wardens, who were walking _en masse _towards the plinth.

"What are they doing?" she whispered, directing the question towards Leonas. The arl was adjusting the bandages that still covered his maimed hand; a souvenir of the final battle against the Darkspawn.

"They're serving the final watch," the arl replied, watching the Wardens kneel in a circle around their dead brother's plinth. "It's a form of military tribute. They'll remain there, keeping vigil, until the pyre is lit at sunset."

Flora stared at the prone figure of Riordan, ignoring the low conversation of those around her as they made ready to leave. For a moment, she fancied that she saw a faint mirage of Duncan's body, superimposed over his dead counterpart's features.

"I want to do it," she breathed, eyes wide. "I want to do it, too. The final watch."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Goodbye Riordan! I always felt a bit bad that you couldn't remember the characters who died in game with some sort of memorial, lol. Isn't that ridiculous!?
> 
> I wanted to show Oghren being more interested in the Wardens, since he ends up joining them! I want to try and do more with him in this story, I feel as though I neglected him in The Lion And The Light!
> 
> We also meet the Orlesian Warden in this chapter – the one who is going to take over the Ferelden Wardens! It's the tall woman with the dark hair.
> 
> The quote from Leliana's song is actually from Beowulf! It's much too beautiful to have been written by me, lol!


	16. The Final Watch

Alistair turned to gape at his lover, his brows rising in consternation. They were standing before the Royal pew in Revanloch's Chantry, the Orlesian Wardens already gathered in a circle around their dead brother's plinth. They were preparing to undertake the _final watch, _a vigil which would last until Riordan's pyre; and Flora had just declared her intention to join them.

"My heart," the king said eventually, nonplussed. "Sunset is _ages _away. You'd miss lunch, and dinner."

"And you can't kneel on a cold floor for hours," added Leliana, sternly. "Not in your condition. You're five and a half months gone with child."

"But I was – am – _was _the Warden-Commander of Ferelden," protested Flora, stubbornly. "I _ought _to do it."

An incredulous Alistair stared at his former sister-warden, then made a pleading gesture towards Finian.

"Finn, can you say something? It's _freezing _in here. Flo can't kneel on these tiles until sunset."

But Finian had been watching his sister closely through his remaining eye, and recognised the belligerent obstinacy settling on her features; strong enough to be glimpsed even through the veil. Flora, usually sweet and pliant as an amiable young sapling, was known to dig her heels in on rare occasion.

"Then I'd stoke up Andraste's Flame a little higher," he replied, in rueful tones. "I recognise the look on Floss' face – the same one as our mother used to get when Father suggested that we host a Satinalia ball for all the knights. Stubborn as a mule."

Eamon looked to Teagan, who gave a helpless shrug. Just then another strongly-accented voice piped up, offering unexpected support.

"Eh, I'll do it wi'ye, lass. I liked Riordan – man could 'old his drink. Nice ter say goodbye."

Flora smiled at Oghren, who had manifested before her with a clear determination in his small, clever eyes. For once, the dwarf's breath did not reek of ale.

"Thank you," she said, pointedly ignoring the others. "I want to say goodbye to Riordan properly, too."

_And to Duncan._

With a slightly belligerent lift of the chin, Flora swivelled on her heel and ascended the shallow series of steps upon which the plinth rested. There was a space near Riordan's feet that was unoccupied, and she prepared to lower herself to the tiles.

Before she could work on the logistics of kneeling – robe, weak knee and belly combined to make this task more difficult - there was a hand at her arm, strong fingers gripping Flora's elbow to help lower her to the flagstones.

"Careful, sweetheart."

At first, Flora thought it was Oghren who had assisted her, but when the voice spoke; she recognised the familiar, clipped drawl. Despite the childhood spent in a stable, there was an unmistakeable thread of aristocracy that shaped her best friend's words; elevating his speech from the common masses.

Alistair smiled ruefully at his former sister-warden, taking to his knee at her side.

"I haven't done one of these vigils since I was a Templar recruit," he murmured, with a wry twist to his mouth. "Should be an interesting experience. It's nearly eight hours until sunset, you know."

Flora blinked at him through the sheer veil, and Alistair's voice softened slightly. He reached out to touch her cheek, thumb brushing over the translucent silk tulle.

"But, you're right. I want to pay my respects to our – to our senior officers."

_Both of them._

Oghren took to his knee at Flora's other side, and she thought that she had never seen the dwarf look so earnest; without a whisker of joviality on his moustachioed features.

The prospect of remaining in one place for eight hours was not too insurmountable. On occasion in the Circle, Flora had hidden in cupboards or behind library shelves for similar lengths of time to avoid classes and irate Templars. In Herring, she had also spent full days sitting beside dropped lines, waiting for a bite.

Now, she found a position that was reasonably comfortable – kneeling down, with her stomach resting on her thighs and her head bowed.

In small groups the others drifted from the Chantry; leaving behind Flora's Templar watchers (not overjoyed at the prospect of spending the next eight hours in one place), and Alistair's Royal Guards (who felt a similar sentiment). After quietly working out a rota of shifts, the door swung shut quietly behind booted feet; and then there was naught but a weighty silence and the uneven of air.

Flora closed her eyes and let her mind blossom with memory; first of Riordan, and then Duncan, the two men blurring together until they became a strange hybrid.

_Little sister. You have a great gift._

_I made the right decision taking you from the Circle._

She remembered when she had first met Duncan, that terrible afternoon in the Circle when Jowan had lost all sense and control, and revealed himself as a _maleficar. _Flora had barely noticed the Warden-Commander's presence, she had been preoccupied with shielding the defenceless Tranquil and shock at Jowan's folly. It was only afterwards, when the blood was being mopped from the tiles, that Flora looked up to see the stranger staring at her; his dark eyes bright and thoughtful.

"_You're a talented healer, little one," he'd said, the words ever-so-slightly accented. "And that shield was an exceptional piece of casting. It was… artistry."_

_He had Rivaini heritage, she would find out later. They found magic beautiful in Rivain._

"_But I can't do anything else," Flora had replied, too shy to meet his gaze. "I can't fight. There's… there's something wrong with me, I'm flawed."_

"_I see no flaw in you, child. It seems to me as though the Maker has granted you a… a rare talent. A talent that could help to save this nation."_

_And it _had_ helped to save the nation, _Flora reflected to herself, awed at her old commander's prescience. _If not for my spirits, we would have died a hundred times over. At Ostagar, when the ogre attacked us at the top of Ishal. At Redcliffe, when the undead poured forth from the castle. Roasted by dragon fire at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Blasted apart by Zathrian in the heart of Brecilian. Torn apart on the ramparts by the Archdemon's teeth. How many assassins' arrows would have met their mark without the barrier? How many blades sunk into vulnerable flesh?_

_You were right, Duncan. I hope you can see how right you were._

_Say hello to my Silver Knight and Golden Lady if you see them. Tell them I miss them, every day. I miss you, too._

One of Flora's feet began to tingle and she tucked it beneath her rear, surreptitiously. She opened her eyes, relying on the gauzy organza veil to disguise her curiosity, and glanced quickly to either side.

The Orlesian Wardens were as still as statues, kneeling before their fallen brother. Even the slight draught blowing through the columns – Flora had learnt that there were always draughts at Revanloch, even if it were not particularly windy outside – did not disturb their inert reverence.

Flora slid her gaze sideways, to where Oghren was slumped with his eyes closed. For a moment, she thought that he had fallen asleep; then a slight shift in the dwarf's movement proved her wrong. She wondered idly what had provoked this sudden fascination in the Wardens, but was pleased that Oghren had found an interest that was not at the bottom of a bottle.

On her other side, Alistair was kneeling with an easy grace borne of many years of practice. His face was uncharacteristically grave, his lips moving silently as he murmured fragments of half-forgotten Chantry prayers. Flora knew that he had first volunteered to stay for the vigil to keep watch over her, unwilling to leave Flora in the very spot where an attempt on her life had been made.

Now, looking at the focused reverence on her best friend's face, Flora guessed that Alistair appreciated this chance to reflect on both Riordan's sacrifice and Duncan's death. It was not often that the king of Ferelden could be left undisturbed for an extended period of time; and ever since Ostagar, they had barely had a moment of peace to mourn their ill-fated commander.

Flora lifted her eyes to Riordan's body, letting her memories flood her mind and distract her from her aching spine.

_You're the only Grey Wardens left in Ferelden? You and the lad – was it Alistair?_

_You've gathered the armies?! Just the two of you – a pair of warden-recruits?_

_Riordan, if things had gone just a little differently, it would have been you who had gathered the armies. It would have been you who was named the Hero of Ferelden, not me._

_Though you probably would still have ended up on this plinth, most likely._

Kneeling on the cold tiles with the baby shifting impatiently in her stomach, Flora promised herself fervently that she would campaign for Riordan to also be named as a _Hero of Ferelden._

_I don't even deserve it. It wasn't me, it was my spirits. I was just their tool. No one praises the rod for catching the fish._

The hours passed by, each one seemingly longer than the last. The echo of a gong rang in the distance, marking the lunch hour. Patches of coloured light from the stained glass windows moved slowly across the flagstones; mirroring the leisurely progress of the sun as it inched along its bow-shaped arc.

Flora had long since passed the point of feeling hungry. Her feet and legs were numb – she didn't know whether it was from cold, or from kneeling down for such a protracted period of time. Rather unfairly, the ache in her lower back had not been masked by the numbness – it had grown more pronounced; a dull throb which gnawed at the base of her spine. The only benefit to kneeling with neck bowed was that it helped to keep the blood flowing to her brain; diminishing the light-headedness that Flora had felt since the morning.

Her stomach rumbled on cue with the dinner gong, and she felt the little creature shift against her kidneys, prodding her with a small foot.

_Sorry, _she thought, miserably. _I'm really hungry too. Can't you just… chew on my insides for nourishment?_

_Actually, don't do that. That sounds really painful, and you're hurting me enough._

_I feel like volunteering for this might have been a bit of a mistake. I don't need to do this to remember Riordan, or Duncan._

_Well, too late now. How much longer?_

As subtly as possible, Flora angled her gaze up to the stained glass window depicting Andraste leading her armies into Tevinter. Unfortunately, it was east-facing and no hint as to the sun's position could be gleaned from the leaded aperture.

Suddenly, Yvon murmured beneath his breath and rose to his feet; lifting his eyes to the ceiling. The other Orlesian Wardens followed suit, inclining their heads in turn towards Riordan's prostrate body. Oghren also clambered to his feet, far less gracefully, his stumble giving an ostentatious rumble.

"Cheers," he said to the dead Warden, head swivelling in pursuit of dinner. "For the… dragon."

Alistair rose up with a slight grimace, glancing down at his veiled lover as she remained kneeling with bowed head. He stretched his arms, rubbing the stiffness from his elbows.

"How did I do this every week when I was fifteen?" the king murmured under his breath, then stood up straighter as the Orlesian Warden-Commander turned to him.

"Your presence here is appreciated, your majesty," Yvon Cuvillier said quietly, bowing his lion-like head. "And the lady Cousland. I see that she is still paying tribute to our fallen brother."

The kneeling Flora stared gloomily at the flagstones, watching the progress of a small spider as it crawled along the base of the plinth.

The moment that the Orlesian Warden-Commander had left with comrades in tow, she shoved the veil back over her face and elbowed Alistair in the shin.

"Help me up!"

"What?" said Alistair, distracted by Chanter Devotia's unrelenting glower.

"_Help me up!" _hissed Flora. "My legs have gone to sleep; I can't move!"

Alistair dropped his attention to his best friend, then frowned; his handsome brow creasing.

"Sweetheart," he breathed, reaching down to haul Flora gently to her feet. "Maker's Breath, you're as white as a sheet. And you're frozen – ah, I'm such an _idiot! _Why did I agree to this?"

"I'm just hungry," replied Flora, wondering at how the stained glass windows were blurring together into a kaleidoscope of muted colour. "I think… I think- I need to eat something."

Then the world lurched beneath her, and she slid slowly into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Vigils are not designed for pregnant women, Flo, get with the program! Does anyone even say that anymore, lol? I bet Alistair is good at just kneeling in place, from his decade spent in the Chantry.
> 
> Anyway, Flora has still not got over her minor obsession with Duncan, haha.


	17. The Pyre

When Flora opened her eyes, the ceiling overhead was low and crossed with wooden beams. She _recognised _these beams – she had tried to count them one night while trying to sleep – and realised that she was back up in the guest chamber. Chanter Devotia was glowering down at her from the end of the bed, her strange violet eyes narrowed.

"It's a miracle," Flora said wonderingly to the disapproving Templar. "I've _transportationed _myself from the Chantry up to here!"

The incredulous Chanter shook her head slowly from side to side.

"Flora!"

Alistair, who had been pacing the length of the room, shot to the side of the bed and crouched down; his hazel eyes blown wide with fear and distress. Flora sat up against the cushions and gazed at him, wondering why her knees were so stiff. He reached out and touched her hair and her face with trembling fingers; the crown set to one side on the mattress.

"Are you alright, sweetheart?" he breathed, the words emerging constricted from his throat. "Is it the baby? Maker's Breath, this is my fault, I should never have- "

"The baby is fine," a nonplussed Flora replied, feeling it nudge irritably against her spine. "Why am I up here?"

"Of course the baby is fine," came an exasperated voice from the doorway. "The silly child decided to spent all day bent in half, without eating. She's fainted, that's all. And it's nobody's fault but hers!"

"Wynne!" Flora breathed, delighted. "Wynne, you've come to visit me. I thought you'd _forgotten_ about me."

The senior enchanter rolled her eyes, crossing the room with a rustling of her maroon Circle robes. She sat on the edge of the bed, leaning forward and fixing the Cousland with her sternest expression. Simultaneously, her lined, elegant hand disappeared into the depths of her robes and withdrew an apple.

"Eat this."

"Shouldn't she have something more substantial than _fruit?" _Alistair asked, anxiously pleating the blanket into folds. "Shouldn't she have some meat?"

The senior enchanter shook her head, watching Flora take an obedient bite.

"No, she needs something sweet. What _possessed _you, Florence, to go without food for the best part of the day?"

"I wanted to do it. The vigil," she replied, through a mouthful of fruit. "To comm- comm… commemoo… _remember _Duncan and Riordan."

"You've _commemorated_ them enough by defeating the Archdemon," retorted Wynne, briskly. "Finish that apple."

Flora took another bite, heaving herself over on the mattress as Alistair collapsed onto the bed beside her, boots and all. The king of Ferelden let out a sigh, dragging his hand over his face.

"That's two heart attacks you've given me within the space of a night and a day, Lo," he murmured, grimacing. "First, the assassin, and now with this _fainting- "_

"And I thought life might get _boring _after the end of Fifth Blight!" Flora finished, swallowing the last bite of apple.

Alistair groaned, unable to see the humour in her response. He pressed his lips to her ear, clutching a fistful of the pale silk of her dress.

"Sweetheart, you need to take more care of yourself," he said, and there was a raw note of pleading in his tone. "For you, and for the baby."

Wynne, nostrils flaring, did not place much stock in Alistair's form of berating. Like many other grown men, the king was clearly unable to be overly stern to a beautiful woman. She, on the other hand, had no such issue.

"Your spirits are _gone, _Florence," she said bluntly, as Flora's face fell. "They're gone, they're never coming back, they are _never_ going to look after you again, and so you need to start taking some responsibility for your own health."

Flora bowed her head, miserably aware that Wynne had an extremely valid point. The senior enchanter continued, in slightly kinder tones.

"I don't mean to be cruel, but you need to think of the child, whose well-being is now _entirely _dependent on you. That means sleeping enough, eating regularly, and _not kneeling in a freezing Chantry for eight hours!"_

Alistair, who felt sorry for his former sister-warden, put an arm around her shoulders. Wynne shot him a glare, and he immediately took it away again, forcing sternness into his voice.

"Wynne is right, my darling - I mean, _Florence_. I'm going to have to… _put my foot down, _here."

"Put your foot down on what?" Flora replied, perplexed. "On the floor?"

"I'd wager that they don't have that expression in Herring," the senior enchanter said, a wry smile curling the corner of her mouth. "Anyway, don't sulk, Flora. We're just concerned for your health. That's _all."_

Alistair returned his arm about his best friend, kissing the side of her ear. Flora leaned her head against his shoulder, then let out a strangled squawk.

"Riordan's pyre," she said, suddenly. "Did I miss it?"

Knight-Captain Gannorn, stationed near the window, took a glance out of the warped glass.

"They're just setting it up in the courtyard," he stated, flatly. "I imagine it'll begin soon."

Alistair opened his mouth to protest, but Flora was already un-entangling herself from his arms, retrieving a woollen jumper to pull on over the filmy silk of the dress.

"Darling, maybe you should _rest," _Alistair began, without much hope.

As expected, Flora shot him a slightly withering look.

"I want to say goodbye," she said, her tone inviting no dissent. "I feel fine, don't worry."

Alistair glanced around, then snatched up a bread roll left over from the breaking of their fast.

"At least eat this on the way down," he implored, clambering to his feet and smoothing out his rumpled tunic. "If the baby has inherited our appetites, it'll want more than just an _apple."_

Prepared to acquiesce on this matter, Flora took the bread roll and bit into it.

* * *

The sun had disappeared beneath the low hills of the Bannorn, faint ghost-like sketches of constellations emerging star by star from the pallid dusk. Despite the rapid encroachment of summer, Ferelden evenings were still chilly enough to warrant sleeves and outer layers; especially for those situated on its coastline. The gulls wheeled over the crumbling turrets and towers of Revanloch, calling out to each other as they eyed the odd collection of people gathered in the courtyard below.

Although the Chantry officials had been responsible for supervising the mass pyres on the Alamarri plains; it had been several months since the last burning at the monastery itself. The pyre had been built up in the central courtyard, a meticulous arrangement of kindling and larger logs. Riordan, clad in full armour, had been placed amidst the branches; his face waxen and stiff.

The Orlesian Wardens were present amidst the crowd, as were many nobles from Ferelden's Landsmeet. Eamon, Teagan, Leonas and Finian were amongst those who had returned; accompanied by several of the commanders from the disbanded Ferelden free army. Lyna Mahariel had returned to the forests with the Dalish, but General Aeducan was present, alongside First Enchanter Irving.

Loghain, with a pronounced limp and leaning heavily on a wooden stick, had also come to attend Riordan's departure. Escorted by two Royal Guard, he had been brought down from Denerim on a litter; not yet able to ride a horse with his wooden limb. He had greeted Flora with reserved cordiality, granting Alistair a stiff nod. Flora had been oddly gratified to see him – after all, he was technically the only Fereldan Grey Warden in existence, and it seemed fitting that he should be present.

"I bet you could kick someone really hard with that foot," Flora offered, eyeing the iron-capped wooden limb affixed to Loghain's knee.

"Aye, lass," he replied quietly, the northern cadence of his accent reflecting her own. "Any suggestions as to targets?"

"The assassin who tried to throw a dagger at me," replied Flora immediately, and Loghain's lip curled in contempt.

"Bad enough to attack a defenceless girl," he muttered, shifting his weight onto his good leg. "Worse to attack one heavy with child."

Flora grimaced, and then the Chantry Mother cleared her throat, raising her arms to the skies and speaking in beatific tones.

"'_O Maker, we commend this soul into Your keeping. Guide this man to Your side; where he may know eternal rest, untroubled by care or affliction.'"_

Leliana murmured a quiet prayer to herself, bowing towards the pyre with experienced reverence. Six Templars, each one clutching a burning torch, stepped forward.

Alistair glanced around to locate his lover. She was standing nearby, having turned away from Loghain at the sound of the Chantry Mother's words. Her eyes were narrowed as she squinted at Riordan's face, and Alistair knew that she was trying to inscribe every plane and angle onto her memory.

Suddenly, struck by a sudden impulse, the king drew Duncan's sword; which he had carried on his belt since Ostagar. Stepping forward, he ascended the low platform upon which the pyre was built, leaning forward to place the Warden-Commander's sword on Riordan's chest.

"Meet the Maker as a warrior, brother-warden."

He returned to Flora's side and she stared at him, her grey irises wide and placid as the Waking Sea after a storm.

"I don't need Duncan's sword to remember him," Alistair murmured to his once sister-warden. "It belongs with Riordan."

Flora nodded mutedly, gazing at the length of silverite as it lay on the senior warden's chest. Instinctively, she reached out and met Alistair's hand already stretching for her own; their fingers wrapping together in practised intimacy as the Templars stepped forwards, touching their torches to the pyre.

The wood must have been doused in some sort of incendiary fuel, since it flared up immediately with a heat and brightness that made those closest to it take a cautionary step back. The flames rose around Riordan's body, engulfing it in seconds. Billowing smoke began to belch upwards as the pyre consumed its offering; ashes and sparks carried towards the well of the night sky.

_I remember you were kind to me in the cells of Fort Drakon, _Flora thought, tremulously. _You told me as much as you could about Duncan. I'm sorry that I always asked more about him, than about you._

She felt a great swell of sadness rise up from her belly like an unseasonably high tide. Unable to help herself, a sniffle escaped her throat; the tears blossoming on her eyelashes and dripping in thin rivulets down her cheeks. She could taste the woodsmoke on her tongue, prickling sharp and acrid against the back of her throat.

Beside her, Alistair - who had presided over a dozen pyres in his capacity as king over the past few weeks - gazed sombrely into the flames. Regret was writ over his handsome features, memories of his old commander flooding his mind. So absorbed was he in his own reminiscence, that he did not immediately notice his companion's distress.

Finian, who found his limited vision distorted by the heat and smoke rising from the pyre, had averted his stare away. Noticing Flora's pale face, he gave her an anxious nudge.

"Floss?" he breathed. "You alright, Flossie?"

"Just the smoke," she croaked back thickly, voice even hoarser than usual. "In my… in my _eyes."_

Her reply was half-masked by the crackling from the pyre as the flames chewed their way through the fuel.

Alistair glanced down at his former sister-warden, then inhaled sharply. Repositioning himself behind Flora, he slid one arm around her waist and the other just beneath her breastbone, drawing her back to his chest. Flora leaned against the familiar muscle of her best friend's chest, grateful for his closeness.

_So much for never crying in public, _she thought gloomily to herself. _Now it's happened twice in one day. And you've fainted._

_How much of this is caused by you, little creature? I never used to be so unbalanced. My Herring-dad would be horrified at such shrimpy behaviour._

At a couple of inches over five foot, Flora's head was too low for Alistair to rest his chin on. Instead, he bowed his face to kiss her hair, tasting ashes on his tongue. He was reminded suddenly of Cailan's pyre, which had been constructed far more amateurishly than this one. The wood had been damp – there was still snow on the ground at Ostagar, despite it being spring everywhere else in Ferelden – and Wynne had needed to use her own magic to accelerate the flames. There was no danger of a slow burn here – the wood was driftwood, dried out and stored in waterproof containers. The pyre flared up fast and fierce, a mass of pure white heat burning at its core.

* * *

Parting that evening proved to be harder than ever for both parties involved. A miserable Flora was desperate for her once brother-warden to stay; yet knew that he needed to return to Denerim, that his stabilising presence in the city was vital in this post-Blight uncertainty.

Alistair, meanwhile, was terrified by the possibility of more assassins, and was also keenly aware of his best friend's distress. He implored both Leliana and Teagan to keep an eye on Flora – fluctuating between instruction and plea – though none of their assurances seemed to assuage his concern.

After promising that he would be back tomorrow evening, the king took his leave with tears in his eyes that were not caused by the wood smoke.

Back up in the bedchamber, both bard and bann demonstrated consummate skill in distracting Flora from her own dolefulness. Leliana sang a motet of northern songs from Ferelden's wildest coastline, several of which Flora half-remembered from her decade spent in Herring.

Teagan then produced a book that he had managed to source from Maker-knew-where, with the alluring title: _Sea Creatures Of Tevinter Legend. _He spent a laborious hour puzzling over the first entry alongside Flora; demonstrating remarkable patience while translating words such as _hydra _and _mythological. _By the time that they had finished the _Minrathous Melusine, _Flora was dozing off; her head bowed low over the page.

Teagan gently extracted the book from her fingers, manoeuvring himself off the bed and stretching his cramped limbs. Shooting the two Templars at the door a slightly wary look, the bann made for the cabinet to pour himself an ale.

_Easier to think of the lass as a niece doing this, _he thought to himself ruefully, unplugging the bottle. _By the time that we reach the end of the book, hopefully it'll put an end to those dreams about her that I really ought to confess to a Chantry Mother._

Leliana, leaning forward to melt the end of her sealing wax in the fire, cleared her throat pointedly. The courteous noble handed the bard the first beaker, pouring himself a second before taking a seat beside the fire.

"So: three remaining Howes," Leliana began steadily, her voice echoing about the chamber.

Teagan raised his eyebrows, glancing towards where Flora was curled up against the cushions. The bard made a soft, dismissive noise; waving her hand.

"Oh, she won't wake up; the child sleeps like the dead. A product of communal quarters, I believe. Anyway, I am unfamiliar with the Howe clan – would you enlighten me? Who do you believe is foolish enough to take out a contract on the widely-adored Hero of Ferelden?"

Leliana's brow creased in a single line; clearly not wholly comfortable with admitting her ignorance.

Teagan downed his ale in a single long draw, setting the beaker down beside the hearth.

"I don't know what his children have heard," he said, frankly. "The Landsmeet know what Howe did to the Couslands. They also know what he planned on doing to the lass, thanks to Loghain. But I'm not sure if the news has spread beyond Denerim."

Leliana finished her drink with more delicacy, her fine-boned face contorted in thought.

"I met the daughter once – Dolores, Delilah, something like that," Teagan continued, his voice quiet. "She seemed reasonable enough. Has the news of Flora's condition spread yet? I can't imagine that a woman would take out a contract on an expectant mother."

Without comment Leliana elevated her shoulder elegantly, inspecting the gleam of her silvered bracelet in a shaft of moonlight.

"The news has reached as far as Val Royeaux, at least," she murmured, with a coordinated lift of the eyebrow. "I have it on good authority that a set of platinum baby spoons are making their way across the Frostbacks at this very moment; each one engraved with Celene's insignia. "

Teagan let out a snort that came out a fraction louder than intended.

"Platinum baby spoons," he repeated, incredulous. "_Orlesians_! Sorry, no offence meant."

The bard waved her hand in a manner that meant _none taken, _the corner of her mouth curling ruefully.

"If there is a Howe out there with ill intentions towards our future queen," she finished, lowering her voice as Flora yawned and shifted in her sleep. "I have faith that Zevran will uncover them. Beneath the lechery and the witty banter, lies a… _consummate professional."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Aaah, so it's goodbye to Riordan! He was a cool character, despite having about six lines, lol. Oh well, he had a lot more than that in my story. Anything to bring in more northerners into my story! I don't know why I love the whole regional differences thing in characterisation – oh actually I do know, it's because I'm a proud Welsh girl living in London!
> 
> So Loghain's got a false leg now – I think he's going to get a cool, Ambroise Pare one in the near future that'll let him ride horses. Ambroise Pare was a French battlefield surgeon and medical pioneer!
> 
> I love the idea of Celene sending this ridiculous, over the top baby present! There's also another gift from Val Royeaux winging its way over the Frostbacks, this one for Flora.


	18. The Almost-Proposal

Awakening in the night with a dry throat, Flora yawned in a deeply unladylike manner; glancing over to where Leliana lay curled catlike in the blankets at her side. Careful not to disturb the softly snoring bard, Flora moved the furs aside and swung her legs out from the bed. Her foot proceeded to make contact with something soft and unexpected.

There came a quiet grunt from the darkness below, and Flora reflexively lifted her hand to summon light to her fingers. Of course, nothing came; and she had to resort to squinting through the shadows.

"Oh," she breathed apologetically as the Bann of Rainesfere gazed blearily up at her. "Sorry. Did I tread on your face?"

Teagan, stretched out on a bedroll on the floorboards, yawned and gave an amiable shrug.

"It's alright, poppet. You weigh as much as a Mabari pup; I doubt you'd have done much damage."

Flora sat up and gazed down at him anxiously, noting the position of the bann's sleeping mat directly alongside the bed. Anybody who wished to reach her would have _literally_ had to step over him; she caught sight of Teagan's sword resting surreptitiously at his side.

"I'm actually small but _dense," _she mumbled, distractedly. "Especially with this, _this_\- "

Flora made a vague circling gesture towards her belly.

"Alistair tried to carry me back up here earlier, you know, like he always does when he thinks I'm tired?"

"Mm."

"Well, he was _sweating _by the time we got to the stairs," Flora whispered, resting her chin on her elbow and widening her eyes at Teagan. "He had to use _both arms_ to carry me down the corridor. He never usually needs both arms! I'm a porker."

The bann let out a muffled bark of laughter, using his sleeve to catch the majority of the sound before it could disturb the bard.

"Anyway," Flora continued, apologetically. "I'm sorry for treading on your… on your face, or your stomach, or your… wherever."

"It's fine, Florence. Are you alright?"

"Just going to get a drink."

"Stay there, I'll get it. Water?"

"Mm, please."

Flora lifted her legs back up onto the bed, adjusting the strapping around her weak knee as she repositioned the blankets. Using shafts of moonlight to navigate, the bann crossed to the side-table and poured out a tankard of water; as well as another weak ale for himself.

"Thank you," Flora said as he handed her the tankard, before settling back down against the bedroll. "I'm sorry that you have to do this – _guard _me. I'm sure you'd rather be in a warm room, with a comfortable bed and- " she remembered an off-hand comment that Teagan had made some weeks ago – "and _winches_."

The bann stifled another snort of laughter, grateful that he had just swallowed a mouthful of ale. Beside the door, Chanter Devotia gave a soft sniff of disapproval.

"It's... quite alright," he replied gravely, trying his best to keep a straight face in the darkness. "The, ah, wenches will just have to do the best they can without me."

Flora rolled over onto her stomach, found this too uncomfortable and relocated to her hip; the child nudging her too persistently to allow sleep.

"When _I_ was pretending to be a winch – remember, when I was _Madame du Poisson _at the Pearl? – I thought that the workers there were very kind. And discreet. It wasn't them that got me caught by Howe."

She rubbed an idle hand over her stomach, feeling the little creature press a shoulder or the curve of a rump against her palm.

_I didn't know you existed then. I'm glad I didn't know when I was captured in Fort Drakon; I didn't need anything else to worry about._

Shifting position, Flora felt something drop from the pile of bedding. Blinking, she peered down to see one of the cushions half-hidden under the bed, and made a quick, futile swipe with her fingers. This only succeeded in batting the cushion further into the dark recess.

"Stay there, petal. There we go, lean forward."

Flora _leaned forward _obediently, feeling the cushion slide into place against her lower back.

"Thank you," she breathed, feeling the ache in her spine abate a fraction. "For being so nice to me."

"It's my pleasure," replied Teagan quietly, quashing his own selfish feelings with a wistful grunt. "After all, since I count Alistair as a nephew, you're… you're almost like my niece."

Without gleaning his meaning, Flora smiled at him, catching a yawn in her elbow.

"'Night, Bann Teagan."

"Night, Flora."

"Don't let the weever fish bite."

"_Weever fish?"_

* * *

The next week passed without incident, Justinian sliding slowly towards Solace with mellifluous ease. In the coastal city of Denerim, Alistair grew reluctantly accustomed to council meetings that lasted eight hours; still new enough to politics that he mostly listened and took notes while Eamon led discussion. Yet the nobles of the Landsmeet learnt quickly that this new Theirin was not to be underestimated. Unlike Cailan, who often neglected matters of government to pursue his own personal follies, Alistair Theirin saw each meeting through to its end; unafraid to insist on further clarification of any issue if required.

At the end of one such meeting, Bann Alfstanna - the Landsmeet's nominated representative in the king's council – petitioned Alistair as to the standing of the lady Cousland. A newly-arrived letter from the Divine had confirmed Florence Cousland's severance from the Fade, endorsing the judgement already made by Ferelden's Grand Cleric and Templar Knight-Commander.

"The people want to see their Hero," the bann stated flatly, her clever, wrinkled eyes seeking out Alistair's own. "They're pestering their local clerics for news. Why don't you bring her back from that ghastly mausoleum tonight?"

Alistair gritted his teeth, hand curling measuredly against the round wooden table. By mutual agreement with Eamon, they had agreed not to share news of the attempted assassination; at least, not until Zevran had returned from his investigations. As much as Alistair was desperate to retrieve his lover from the gloomy clifftop monastery, he knew that there was logic behind her continued stay there – it was far more secure than the very public Royal Palace.

"Florence is still recovering from the battle with the Archdemon," the Arl of Redcliffe interjected smoothly, seeing Alistair at a loss for words. "She needs peace and quiet, and Revanloch can provide it. Besides, her victory feast is next week, and she'll be returning for that. The people can see her then."

Alistair nodded in silent, gloomy agreement with his elder uncle; hoping that his impatience for the session to be ended was not writ too plainly across his face.

The final item on the agenda was Alistair's coronation, which was now only mere weeks away. Delegates from the different nations of Thedas would start arriving in the upcoming days, and would need to be accommodated and catered for sufficiently. The assumption was that Alistair would wed his Cousland bride on the same day.

As this was mentioned, Alistair shifted uncomfortably in his seat, a slight grimace contorting his handsome features. The sharp-eyed Alfstanna spotted his momentary discomfort, and a single greying eyebrow rose skywards.

"Is the lady Cousland aware of her upcoming wedding yet, Alistair?"

The following silence proved answer enough, and the bann snorted wryly.

"Does the poor girl know that she's _betrothed?"_

"I'm… working on it."

Unaware that the cloth-workers of Denerim were currently puzzling on how best to incorporate the Theirin lion with the Cousland laurel; the future Queen of Ferelden had spent the recent days at Revanloch immersed in quiet gloom. Riordan's funeral had renewed Flora's grief at the destruction of her spirits, and she had been thoroughly miserable for the past week.

Wynne had stayed for three days; skilfully distracting Flora from her sadness by avoiding the topic of magic entirely. They spent hours in the library, working on both general literacy and Flora's knowledge of the dynasties of Thedas. Both Leliana and Wynne waited with baited breath for Flora to ask _why _she was learning about the history of Orlo-Fereldan relations; but the question never seemed to come.

"Does she think that Alistair will keep her merely as a mistress forever?" Leliana breathed quietly, the two women watching Flora as she poured over a book of Theodesian maps. "Even when she births a prince or princess?"

Wynne gave a shrug, flashing Flora a quick and reassuring smile as the young Cousland glanced round.

"Over the span of a year, she's gone from mage, to Warden, to _Cousland," _the senior enchanter murmured in response. "I don't think a _further _elevation of rank has even occurred to her."

"But does she not realise what Alistair is _doing?"_

Alistair – true to his word – had arrived at the monastery every evening without fail. Without any prior experience to inform him, he had nevertheless done his best to _court _his former sister-warden; as would be expected for any young noble seeking a girl's hand in marriage. He had brought Flora even more flowers, until the room overflowed with vases. He had found a large conch shell on the Palace beach and given it to her; beaming as she held it to her ear with a squeak of delight.

He had also meticulously found out each of her peculiar dietary cravings – the earth-covered turnips, bowls of cream and mint sauce, smoked haddock slathered with jam – and brought it down from the Palace. On one evening, Flora - almost tearful at the sight of so much appealing food – confronted him as to _why _he was being so generous.

They were both up on the ramparts overlooking the Amaranthine Ocean, the ochre light from the setting sun spilling over the crumbling stone. Leliana had vanished to give them a fraction more privacy – although naturally the two Templars were still present, standing quietly a dozen yards away.

"I don't understand," Flora breathed, reluctantly tearing her eyes away from the basket of dirt-caked turnips. "I haven't done anything. Why are you rewarding me?"

"Hm, sweetheart?"

"Is it my birthday?"

"No, love. Still a fortnight away."

"Is it Satinalia?"

"Not even _close!"_

Flora looked bemused. "Then WHY?"

Alistair wanted nothing more than to ask her then; to drop to his knees and take her hand, and ask the question that had been burning in his mind since South Reach.

_Marry me, _he thought, desperately. _I want to be a husband to you. I want you as my wife._

"Flora..." he began tremulously, then trailed off, a lonely seagull calling out as it wheeled overhead.

Before finishing his sentence, the king reached out and took Flora's hand, lifting her curling fingers to his mouth and kissing them. His lips landed, half-consciously, on the finger that bore the Cousland ring; the one which housed the vein to the heart.

"Well, I'm courting you, aren't I? I want to do this _properly, _Lo. Everything was so rushed, during the Blight."

Flora stared at him in perplexion, her brow furrowing. Then there came a small flicker of realisation in the depths of her pale irises, brief as lightning across a winter sky; her eyes widening imperceptibly.

"Alistair," she said, her voice small. "Do you -? "

Alistair stared down at his best friend, willing her to say the words; to voice the question that had been on the tip of his tongue for weeks.

"Flora, I- "

"_Unbelievable!"_

Leliana erupted onto the ramparts, storm-clouds massing on her flushed features as she stalked past the Templars.

Flora blinked as though awakened from a daydream, turning to face the bard as Alistair muttered under his breath.

"I agreed to lead a seminar with a dozen initiates on the parallels between the Canticle of Erudition and the Canticle of Exaltations," the bard fumed, grasping the crumbling stone battlements and glowering down at the rocky beach below.

"Sounds fascinating," replied the king drily, accepting that the moment with Flora had vanished. "Let me guess: they didn't turn up to discuss the Chant?"

Leliana snarled quietly to herself, sweeping her fingers down to scoop an earth-covered turnip from the basket. With an eloquently uttered curse in Orlesian, she hurled the unfortunate vegetable over the ramparts. Flora stifled a squawk of dismay, biting her lip as she watched her snack disintegrate into pieces against the rocks below.

"_Non!" _the bard retorted, irritated. "They spent the hour trying to look down the front of my robes, interspersed with inane questions about _Darkspawn. _Darkspawn!"

Alistair had to stifle a guffaw, while Flora looked suitably indignant.

"How audacious," she breathed, outraged on Leliana's behalf. "When you were trying to _educate _them, too!"

"Exactly!" replied Leliana with a small huff, tossing her short, auburn braids. "Alistair, stop _laughing."_

Despite his levity, Alistair was reluctant to leave his sister-warden that evening; half-tempted to lift Flora onto his saddle and bring her back to Denerim. His logical mind waged a fierce internal debate with his heart, pointing out the flaws in such an impulsive plan.

_The Royal Palace is a public building. It has two dozen entrances; more back passages and hidden doorways than are shown on any map. It's not as secure as Revanloch._

A light evening drizzle accompanied the setting sun; the puddles in the courtyard lit in gold and bronze by the waning rays. The king kissed his mistress once more, one palm resting on the pronounced curve of her stomach as he extracted the promise he received every evening.

"Stay with the others tonight, darling."

"I will!"

"Wake Leliana and my uncle if you want to go anywhere."

Flora nodded, although she had not been on any nocturnal wanderings since the assassin in the Chantry.

Alistair stared down at her a moment longer, then glanced around.

"Maybe I should walk you back to your chamber – Lel is up there already."

"I'll be fine," Flora reassured him, gesturing towards the two Templars standing several yards away. "They're still here."

This did not wholly satisfy Alistair, but he gave a tight nod, bending down to kiss her once more.

"I'll see you tomorrow, my love."

The inhabitants of Revanloch had almost grown used to Flora's presence as the Hero of Ferelden – after all, the Blight was three weeks in the past, and had never reached their enclosed little world anyway. However, she was still a beautiful girl, and one not covered by the austere and modest robes of a Chantry sister. The giggling recruits had been warned not to approach the lady Cousland directly, but their eyes still followed her about like cats after a fishmonger's cart.

Flora could feel stares prickling between her shoulder-blades as she passed through the inner courtyard; muffled comments half-hidden behind hands. It was something she had grown reluctantly accustomed to – attention was never something that she sought, but it had been thrust inadvertently upon her during the Fifth Blight.

With the footsteps of Knight-Captain Gannorn and Chanter Devotia echoing against the flagstones behind her, Flora was just about to ascend the steps leading to the east wing when a low, accented voice caught her attention.

"Lady Cousland?"

It was Yvon Cuvillier, Commander of the Grey in Orlais. His tousled, leonine presence stood out starkly against the damp stone of Revanloch; and he bowed towards Flora with the finesse of any Val Royeaux courtier.

"My lady, I have some… questions. Actually, _many _questions. Do you have a moment?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I'm sure the Orlesian Warden has questions, lol – like HOW are you UP THE DUFF? HOW did you survive the ARCHDEMON? HOW is this immature nineteen year old the WARDEN-COMMANDER?
> 
> Poor Alistair has got himself into a bit of a situation – everyone is assuming that he's getting married to Flora, the coronation/wedding is going ahead… and Flora has no idea, lol. It's because Alistair a) has no experience b) has romantic notions about courting Flora in the traditional way; which is why he hasn't actually proposed to her yet. Which is a slight issue because the coronation is in three weeks time!


	19. An Orlesian Interrogation

The Orlesian Warden-Commander gazed at Flora, his tawny eyes steady and biting. Flora came to a halt in the corridor, her heart sinking. She had a distinct feeling she _knew_ what the _matters for discussion _pertained to – the slaying of the Archdemon, the cleansing of the taint, and the preposterous roundedness of her belly. She also guessed that the man had tactfully restrained himself from making such enquiries after Riordan's funeral; but Flora's dolefulness could not shield her indefinitely.

Flora therefore took a deep breath and gave a small nod, following Yvon Cuvillier into a side-chamber that she had never noticed before. It reminded Flora of a Circle classroom – rows of wooden desks, a teacher's lectern at the front, and bookshelves lining one wall. Incongruously, several of the Orlesian Wardens had already taken seats at the initiate desks – Yvon's shaven-headed lieutenant was present, as well as the angular woman with the grey-streaked bun. The seated Wardens rose to acknowledge her, and Flora felt as though she were a teacher arriving to deliver a lecture.

Stifling a laugh at such a ludicrous prospect – she was well aware of her own limited intellect – Flora took the seat that the Orlesian Commander pulled out for her.

Yvon Cuvillier then went to close the door, and Knight-Captain Gannorn let out a soft grunt of warning.

"It stays open," the Knight-Captain stated, flat and uncompromising. For the first time, Flora was grateful for the ever-present Templar guards.

The Warden-Commander made to protest, then inclined his head slightly.

"Fine. Lady Cousland, I should like to clarify a few things, if I may. Would you be amenable to some… questions?"

She gave a gloomy nod, hoping that the mask of solemnity on her features hid her trepidation. Behind her, Gannorn made a small gesture to Chanter Devotia. The female Templar gave a slight grunt, slipping from the room with surprising subtlety.

Yvon paused before speaking, glancing down at Flora with a faintly quizzical expression.

"Forgive my ignorance," he murmured, changing his mind about taking a seat and pacing the length of the classroom. "I'm afraid that communication between branches is poor at the best of times, let alone during a Blight. You were recruited by Duncan, a year ago?"

"Almost a year," Flora corrected, counting back through the months on uncertain fingers. "In the autumn. I don't know exactly when. I came to Ostagar about a month before – before the battle."

_Before the majority of the Fereldan Wardens were obliterated._

"And you gathered the armies – _two junior recruits_ – and won the support of the Landsmeet," Yvon continued, one golden eyebrow rising incredulously. "And then you slew the Archdemon, and instead of dying; both you and King Alistair were cleansed of the taint."

"I cured Alistair beforehand," Flora mumbled, cringing inwardly as she recalled her brother-warden's shock and furious indignation. "I didn't want him to risk taking the final blow. He would've done, to save Ferelden."

The angular woman, too tall for the initiate's desk, was scribing Flora's responses on a roll of parchment.

Yvon gave another nod, making a visible effort to stem the flood of questions as they bubbled up within his throat. His eyes fell on Flora's hand, resting idly on her belly in a way that she never would have dared to do when her condition was still a secret.

"I must beg forgiveness once again," he asked, quietly. "Rumour travels on the fleetest of wings, and no faster than within the streets of Val Royeaux. That _is _the king's child, yes? The former Warden, Alistair? "

Flora nodded, feeling the little creature nudge against her kidneys.

_Yes, we are talking about you._

"But – how is this possible?"

"I'm- I _was _an… unusual mage," she replied, deciding that the more she explained, the less she would be questioned. "I couldn't really do much, but I was – I was a good healer. I had spirits that helped me. My body – it cured poisons. I could cleanse the taint, with their help."

_You kept the vein of Darkspawn ichor in my blood so that I could kill the Archdemon and end the Blight. Once the dragon was dead, your last action was to remove the taint as you left me._

"I can't feel her," Clarel spoke up, bluntly. "I couldn't feel the king, either."

Yvon inhaled, shaking his lion-like head in wonder. He did take a seat then, his powerful frame incongruous behind the recruit's desk.

"So that's how you were able to conceive," he said at last, his voice soft and wondering. "You understand it is _unprecedented,_ yes?"

Flora nodded, shifting position surreptitiously against the unforgiving wooden seat.

There followed a pause for a long moment, the bell for the final evening service echoing in the passage outside. Flora could hear the distant sound of a chattering crowd making their way towards the Chantry, and thought that she would rather sit through two hours of prayer than continue with this polite interrogation.

"And these spirits were destroyed when you slew the Archdemon," Yvon said eventually, tapping his fingers against his knee. "Instead of yourself."

Flora nodded once more, feeling a bolt of guilt ricochet around her skull at the destruction of her spirits. Instead of speaking, she held out her palms; showing the patches of white, sunburst-shaped discolouration.

"I have marks on my back, and my leg too," she said, remembering her obliterated _Peraquialus _freckles with a small jolt of sadness. "I don't think they'll ever go away."

Yvon reached out and took Flora's hand, fascination momentarily overcoming his propriety. His eyebrows rose as he gazed at the strange, pale markings, extending in curlicues across the surface of her skin; a soft, astonished murmur in Orlesian slipped from his lips.

"Right," he said abruptly, collecting himself and returning upright. "Thank you for your assistance, lady Cousland. Now- "

The Orlesian Warden-Commander turned to his captain and the rest of his Wardens, clearing his throat.

"The Fifth Blight may be over, but Ferelden's Order must be rebuilt. There'll be pockets of Darkspawn that need to be monitored; even leaderless, they still pose a threat to rural communities. I suggest we create a command structure from within our own Val Royeaux ranks. The Orlesian Wardens can afford to be divided, our numbers are strong enough- "

"Well, that wouldn't be very considerate,_"_ came the protest from a wide-eyed Flora. "Their poor feet. Their _blisters._"

There followed a moment of confused silence, as Yvon Cuvillier turned to look at her. Flora blinked back at him, innocuous.

"What do you mean, my lady?"

"From having to walk _all _the way to Ferelden, then turn around and walk _all _the way back to Val Royeaux," she continued, placidly. "Or perhaps it's the poor horses I should feel sorry for?"

"Why would they be walking back to Val Royeaux?" the lion-headed man replied, confused.

"After being stopped at the border, of course," Flora replied, patiently. "Ferelden admits no foreign force without permission from its king, and I don't see Alistair here, do you?"

She was now standing, her pale eyes cold as a winter sea, the imperiousness of a Cousland writ across the fine-hewn features that had always set her apart from the other inhabitants of Herring. For a moment, she envisioned herself back in the Landsmeet chamber, confronting another soldier who had made the mistake of dismissing her in the way that middle-aged men tended to dismiss young, attractive women.

"Also, I don't remember being consulted on this," Flora continued, unimpressed. "_I _called the armies, _I_ killed the Archdemon. I'm still the _Acting Warden-Commander of Ferelden, _and when someone replaces me; it'll be someone who Alistair and myself feel is best for this country. We will, of course, consult with Orlais," she added, with a small and humourless smile.

Yvon gaped at Flora, who stared back at him with the arrogant, well-hewn profile of a scion of Ferelden's most ancient dynasty. He had made the mistake of judging Florence Cousland based on her youth, her wide-eyed beauty, and her quiet grief after Riordan's funeral. This sudden flash of sheer, blunt defiance came as a shock.

"Loghain Mac Tir will need to be involved too," Flora added, slow and unblinking. "He's recovering from injury, but he's capable and he values this nation's security above no other."

Yvon, astonished, gave a wordless nod. Flora rewarded his compliance with a patient smile.

"The next time I see the king, I'll let him know that you would like to discuss this," she said, kindly. "We'll sit down together and come to some sort of _arrangement."_

"Yes, my lady," Yvon replied, eyebrows now lodged in his hairline. "I… I apologise for my presumption."

"Hm," said Flora, already tiring of the conversation. "We'll talk about this tomorrow, then."

Her stomach rumbled and she turned towards the exit, trying to ignore the twinge of pain from her knee.

Leliana was standing in the doorway – the Chanter had clearly gone to fetch her – and a beam was curled across her face from ear to ear. On hearing that Flora had been corralled into a classroom by the Orlesians, the bard had scuttled down the corridors in readiness to launch an indignant rescue.

Yet she had arrived just in time to hear Flora's solemn, polite and incontestable response; the young Cousland calmly rebuffing the commander's attempts to seize control of the Fereldan Wardens.

Leliana slid her arm into Flora's, steering her away from the classroom and towards the staircase that led to their guest quarters. The Templar guard followed in their wake, stoic and silent.

After ascending the stone steps, they turned into a damp, labyrinthine passage lined with moth-eaten tapestries. Now confident that they were out of earshot, Leliana kissed Flora on the cheek; inordinately and inexplicably proud.

"Well done for resisting his _cajolement, ma petite._ The Cuvilliers are known for their persuasive tongues; and I know it is your instinct to do as you are told. I hope he did not try and intimidate you in any way?"

Flora gave a little shake of the head, feeling her knee give a more persistent twinge just as the child dug an elbow or a knee into the base of her spine.

"Ouch. No, I… I don't think he did. Or if he tried, I didn't notice."

Leliana smiled, withdrawing the key from her sleeve as they approached their quarters.

"Regardless, it seems that you maintained both poise and bearing in the face of his interrogation. Well done, _ma crevette_."

Flora smiled vaguely, thinking that Leliana seemed almost disproportionately pleased at this small defiance.

The bard was indeed delighted, although for more significant reasons.

_If she can stand up for herself against Orlais now; she can stand up for Ferelden as queen._

* * *

The next afternoon brought a most unexpected visitor. Flora and Leliana had been sitting at the table in the inner courtyard; the one separated from the training area by a high, ivy-covered wall. They could hear the rhythmic sounds of wooden swords beating against shields as the initiates practised drill; accompanied by the irate bark of an instructor.

Leliana was reading from a small book of Chantry homilies, her lips moving silently as she recited them out loud. As a special concession, the bard had been granted permission to lead the Sunday service; and was determined for it to be both an enlightening and _spiritually __invigorating_ experience.

Flora had the cards of Theodesian leaders spread out over the table before her; reminding herself of the names of each nation's leader.

_Celene Valmont I._

She pressed a fingertip curiously against Celene's face, tracing the chiselled angles of the high cheekbones. The Empress had been depicted holding a golden mask in one hand. stylised feathers extending swan-like back from her ears.

"Why do Orlesians like to hide their faces?" Flora asked after a moment, her brow furrowed.

Few topics of discussion could distract Leliana from her piety, but the bard's adopted home was certainly one of them. She lowered the book of prayers, a wistful smile pulling at her lips.

"Ah, but many sports require facial protection, do they not? In jousting, a guard is worn, in fencing, a lighter cover. Orlesian politics is a sport like no other; and the masking of the face adds another layer to the _Game."_

Flora wrinkled her nose; such subterfuge was the antithesis of crude Herring bluntness.

"I wonder if I'll meet any more Orlesians," she wondered out loud, tracing the neatly inked flowers on the edge of the card. "I don't suppose they come to Ferelden very often."

"Well, you would if you went to Orlais," murmured Leliana, lifting a delicate porcelain teacup between equally elegant fingers. "Say, if you visited Val Royeaux."

Flora looked almost comically astonished, her pale eyes widening.

"_Leave _Ferelden?" she breathed, taken aback. "Why would I ever want to do that? And why would I go to _Val Royeaux _of all places?"

"Why, accompanying Alistair, of course," countered Leliana, smoothly. "If he ever decides on a state visit."

"Oh," replied Flora, slightly nonplussed. "Because I'm his mistress?"

Leliana raised her eyes above her teacup, pupils glinting like a silverite blade catching the sun.

"The Hero of Ferelden deserves more than to be a _mistress, _hm?"

Flora peered back at the bard, slightly confused. Leliana kept her gaze, steady and even; this time offering no distracting comment or skilful turn of conversation.

"Alistair will have his own card made soon, to replace that of his brother," she continued, quietly. "I should think he would wish for you to be drawn alongside him."

Leliana's slender fingers made a sweeping gesture, encompassing the various empresses, archons, kings, queens and dukes of Thedas. Flora stared down at them, a slow, primordial thought stirring deep within her mind.

"Leliana," she breathed, in a voice that was little more than a whisper. "Does- does Alistair…?"

Just then, a most unexpected visitor entered the small courtyard; bulky enough to seem overly large within the confines of the stone walls. The Templars escorting him were wide-eyed, trying to hide their astonishment. Even the steely Knight-Captain Gannorn and Chanter Devotia, incongruously flanking a large potted plant, were unable to arrest a flinch of shock.

"My lady," squawked one of the young guards. "This _Qunari _claims to know you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: STEN has come to visit! Haha, he's come to deliver some home truths about Flora's new role, lol. I like this chapter because we get a brief bit of the 'old' Flora – the defiance, the standing-up to her 'superiors' that happened in several key moments in The Lion And The Light (in the Grand Chantry with Loghain, and again in the Landsmeet Chamber). Flora has been far more quiet and malleable so far in this story – she's still coming to terms with the loss of her spirits, her silent coaches – but never fear, that stubbornness and occasional eloquence is still there!
> 
> Not really so much of an 'interrogation' after all - Yvon Cuvillier is a political creature, knows that Flora is Alistair's lover, and doesn't want to cause a diplomatic incident by traumatising her, lol.
> 
> Haha, Flora keeps ALMOST understanding what Alistair is preparing to do – propose – and then gets distracted by something!


	20. I'm Not A Ferocious Lady!

Flora rose to her feet, transparent delight suffusing her features.

"Ste-e-e-n!" she bleated, scuttling across the worn cobbles. "Sten, I thought you'd gone back to… to wherever you're _from!"_

Flora came to a halt before the lofty Qunari, shuffling from foot to foot. It was clear that she was desperate to throw her arms around his waist – Flora had always been liberal with her physical affection – but likewise knew that Sten would not suffer such a display of sentiment.

Sten gazed down at her with the impassivity of a rock face, his crimson eyes utterly unreadable.

"Clearly I have not _gone_," he replied, disapproving of the question's redundancy. "I am here. I intend to _remain_ here until the investiture of Ferelden's leader; and then return to Par Vollen with my report."

Flora smiled vaguely up at him, and the Qunari narrowed his stare; both of them fully aware that she had no idea what _investiture_ meant.

"You've grown larger since last I saw you," Sten said after a moment, lowering his gaze further to the swell of the child pressing against her woollen tunic. "Soon, you may be as wide as you are tall."

"Good," replied Flora immediately, her expression earnest. "My feet hurt all the time; I'd love to roll everywhere. Like a BALL_._"

The Qunari let out a grunt, striding past her into the centre of the courtyard. He swept his ashen, assessing stare around the crumbling walls; appraising the monastery's general decrepitude. Leliana, who had returned to the table with her book of homilies, gave him a beatific smile of greeting.

"I noticed seven serious flaws in this building's security as I was escorted here," Sten said at last, and Leliana's ears pricked up.

"The north tower and the portcullis near the drains?"

The Qunari nodded, and the bard gave a soft cluck of satisfaction under her breath.

"So, I hear that Howes are after you again. How is it that you seem to launch straight from one peril to another?"

This was from Sten, who had returned his stare to Flora. The Par Vollen native had clearly learnt the habit of _rhetorical_ _questioning _during his sojourn on the Ferelden mainland.

"I don't know," replied Flora, slightly gloomily. There had been no more attempts on her life – clumsy or not – over the past week; the monastery bristled with more guards and patrolling soldiers than the Royal barracks.

Sten grunted, lifting a strong arm behind his back. Lifting _Asala _from between his shoulder-blades, he let the vast greatsword rest carefully against the edge of the table. Instead of his own life-weapon, he withdrew a slender dagger from his pack. It was cut from silverite, the blade itself curved wickedly to cause maximum damage.

"Without your magical talent, your survival in an attack is not guaranteed," he stated, without emotion. "I… should not wish to see the warrior who felled the Archdemon, silenced by a clumsy amateur. I will show you a few counters that even the simplest and most incompetent children could master."

Flora, temporarily enchanted by his description of her as a _warrior, _took a moment to register what the Qunari was offering.

"Oh!" she said at last as he glowered at her, expecting a reply. "Thank you! I am an incompetent child."

Unfortunately, Flora proved not to be a master with the dagger. Her natural lack of grace, combined with the cumbersome swell of her belly, a stiff knee and sore feet; all conspired to sabotage her efforts. Leliana watched from her position at the table, unable to stop from grimacing. The two Templars looked on without expression; though a momentary spark of compassion had flickered across Chanter Devotia's face as Flora dropped the dagger for the tenth time.

Gritting her teeth against the pain in her lower back, Flora bent over and retrieved the blade.

"You know, there was someone else who tried to teach me how to use a dagger," she offered casually, sweat pouring down her forehead. "Leliana, remember the Rivaini lady from the Pearl? Zevran's friend."

Leliana snorted; she remembered _very _well.

"I think she was perhaps more successful at teaching you _other _things though, _eh, ma petite?"_

Flora let out a cackle, running her thumb idly over the grooved end of the dagger.

"That was a good night," she breathed, wistfully. "Although I did get kidnapped by Howe's men the next morning."

"Which will happen again if you have no way to defend yourself," snapped the Qunari, demonstrating a singular lack of patience. "Desist with these attempts to distract me."

Flora wiped the end of her sleeve over her forehead, making an effort to mop up the sweat.

"Alright," she said gamely, her feet throbbing inside her boots. "Let's keep going."

* * *

An hour later, the gloomy courtyard was losing what little sun it had managed to glean. As the sun lowered itself into the Bannorn, the temperature dropped and a chilly breeze began to explore Revanloch's labyrinthine corridors.

Flora's attempts to master Sten's dagger had proved in vain. Whatever elegance she demonstrated through dance was not mirrored by her normal movement; and this inherent lack of grace, combined with her physical restrictions, served to undermine all her attempts to wield the blade.

The Qunari, making a swift assessment of the situation, reached out to intercept Flora as she went to retrieve the dagger for the fifteenth time.

"This has been a wasted endeavour," he stated, with characteristic, brutal honesty. "Instead, I suggest you focus your efforts on your new role."

"My – my _new _role?" Flora asked, uncertain.

"Producing the next leader of this nation," Sten clarified, making an irritable gesture towards Flora's swollen stomach. "In your current condition, it is all that you can contribute to this society."

To the Qunari, who lacked any semblance of Theodesian social niceties, this was a mere stating of the fact. To Flora, it was a condemnation of her inadequacy, now that she was trapped in only a single realm.

_The only time I'll ever go back to the Fade – and possibly see my spirits again – is when I die._

_Sten's right; I can't do anything without my magic. I am useless! All I'm good for now is… giving birth._

Flora felt the tears rising before she could arrest them; streaming down her cheeks like a broken dam. Letting out a choked sound of distress, she scuttled between the old basalt pillars and back into the shadowy depths of the monastery. The two Templars glanced at one another wordlessly, then turned to follow her.

A crease formed in the centre of Sten's brow; the only indication of his confusion. He turned to look at Leliana, who was gathering up her book of homilies and tea paraphernalia, with a scowl writ across her features.

"Why is she caterwauling like an infant?" the Qunari asked, nonplussed. "I only stated the truth."

Leliana let out a small huff of displeasure, turning her pale blue stare on Sten as she made to follow in the wailing Flora's wake.

"Sten, remember when you lost your sword?"

"Obviously."

"How did you feel?"

"Maimed."

Leliana gave a little exasperated _huff, _shooting him a final glance over her shoulder.

"Well, that's how Flora feels, without her spirits. And unlike your sword, there's no way for her to find them again."

The bard left the Qunari in the courtyard, looking as thoughtful as she had ever seen him.

* * *

As the last egg-yolk sliver of the setting sun disappeared behind the distant hills, the party from the Royal Palace arrived at the monastery. Stable boys came rushing out to take the horses – they had tossed dice beforehand to see who would get the privilege of leading in the king's steed. Alistair and Teagan, escorted by a discreet contingent of Royal Guard, made entrance into Revanloch monastery; the Knight-Commander hurrying down from his study to greet them.

Alistair gave the greying Templar a stiff nod, not quite ready to forgive him for the previous week's grievous broach of security.

"Anything unusual?" the king asked in place of a greeting; his hazel eyes sharp and clear as Fereldan ale.

The Knight-Commander shook his head, falling into step alongside Alistair.

"No, your majesty. I've had guards stationed at the gate-posts day and night, and they report only the usual visitors."

Alistair shot a quick glance at his uncle, who let a shoulder rise and fall in grim acceptance.

"Hopefully your elven friend will return with news," the bann offered, quietly. "Set an assassin to catch an assassin, if you will."

Alistair let out a grunt of frustration, nostrils flaring.

A pair of excitable initiates rounded the corner before them, chattering away with practise wooden swords bundled in their arms. As they caught sight of the king of Ferelden – six feet and three inches of leather clad, fur trimmed muscle, the gold band squarely atop his lofty head – they gaped in alarm and promptly dropped the swords.

Alistair, wondering if he had ever been so young and naïve, bent to help them gather up the swords. The slightly braver of the two offered a squeak of gratitude, a flush rising to their hairline.

Leliana was waiting outside the doors to the Chantry, her arms folded grimly over her chest. Chanter Devotia stood beside her, stern and impassive as the Qunari.

"Alistair," she warned, the years spent in Val Royeaux shaping her distinctive tone. "She's not very happy."

"What do you mean, _not very happy?"_

"She's been crying, _d__e temps à autre,_ all afternoon."

Alistair's brow creased in dismay, feeling his stomach drop unpleasantly within his gut.

"Why? I should have been _told_," he protested, one hand reaching to shove open the door. "I could have come earlier."

"Sten said that her only purpose was to birth an heir for Ferelden."

Beside him, Alistair heard Teagan let out a soft groan, the bann shaking his head slowly from side to side. The king himself flinched, part in disbelief and part in sorrow for his former sister-warden; who had not yet found her place in this post-Blight world.

"My poor girl," he said at last, hand resting motionless on the wood. "Is she in there?"

Leliana nodded, gesturing with an elegant hand.

Tactfully, Teagan murmured that he would take his paperwork up to the guest quarters. Alistair gave a distracted grunt of acknowledgement; shoving open the doors with an impatient elbow and stepping forward into Revanloch's Chantry. The doors closed behind him with a dull thud, and the king inhaled a lungful of damp, musty air.

The sacred space was near-deserted, the echoes of a thousand prayers and hymns clinging to the great stone arches that spanned the ceiling. The empty pews stretched out towards the front altar, where the Andrastian flame smouldered away with a soft, potent murmur.

Knight-Captain Gannorn was standing beside one of the pillars, hands behind his back and stance very stiff. It was clear that the Templar intended to maintain a professional distance from his charge; even if she were distressed and weeping.

Flora sat hunched over in one of the pews – not the Royal pew, since she would not presume to sit there without Alistair – with her shoulders drawn up and her head hanging low.

Alistair, feeling his heart rise painfully into his mouth, made his way down the central aisle. To his surprise, the Knight-Captain bowed his head, withdrawing wordlessly to the rear of the Chantry. The next moment, the wooden doors shut softly in the older man's wake.

Flora barely looked up as Alistair sat on the bench beside her. She had recognised his tread on the tiles, knowing the press of boot against stone as well as the sound of her own contracting lungs.

"Sweetheart," he breathed, and then said nothing more, reaching out to turn her face towards his. Flora let her mournful stare settle on him, cheeks mottled with the remnants of tears. Her boots lay discarded to one side, her bare toes brushing the cold tiles.

"My feet hurt," she whispered evasively after a moment, her voice even throatier than normal. "They _ache_. And I… I can't make the pain go away."

Alistair stared at the girl who had shaped his life and saved his nation, whose mooring ropes had come adrift with the loss of her spirits. He didn't know what to say to her; wasn't sure what words could possibly soothe such a gaping wound.

"Here, baby," he said thickly at last, unable to adequately articulate the emotion swelling in his throat. "Let me rub them. It might help the soreness."

Flora blinked at him, and Alistair took her silence as acquiescence. Reaching down, he lifted her feet gently up onto his thighs, frowning at their coldness. Unsure if he was even doing the right thing, he drove his thumbs in small circles over the sore flesh; pressing against the joints and kneading away the tightness with his curled knuckles.

"Your feet are half the size of mine," he commented after a few moments, sliding his palm beneath the pale, pink sole. "Does this feel any better?"

"Mm."

Flora nodded, bowing her forehead against his shoulder.

The moonlight – Ferelden's moon was far more luminous than its insipid daytime counterpart – shone through the stained glass windows; illuminating the leaded fragments in tones of dove-grey and silver.

Alistair ran his calloused thumb over her toes, the acoustics of the Chantry taking his soft words and throwing them between the damp pillars.

"My feet are _huge," _he continued, with a rueful smile. "Remember, I could never find boots to fit when we were travelling? I bet you don't miss having to heal all my blisters."

The king bowed his head and pressed an impulsive kiss to her toes. The next moment, he heard Flora sniff, and wet her dry lips.

"I'm not good with a sword, like you," she whispered, miserably. "I'm not a _ferocious lady_, like Leliana. Even if you took Wynne's magic away, she'd still be the most cleverest – _clever _– person in Ferelden. What… what am I without my spirits? I can't do anything."

Alistair paused for a moment, his thumb idly circling the delicate bone of Flora's ankle. She hung her head, miserable in a way that she had not been since the Templars had first taken her from Herring.

"Darling," he said eventually, the words emerging soft and earnest. "You're only _nineteen years old. _If you want to learn how to wield daggers like Leliana, or to write books like Wynne – you have _decades _to learn how to do it. Look at how your reading has improved over the past six months."

Flora gave a begrudging nod; she could see his point. Alistair squeezed her heel gently, gratified to feel the warmth returning to her skin.

"And at the moment, you're still the kindest and bravest girl I know," he murmured, suddenly feeling the tears prickling incongruously in the corners of his own eyes. "Your spirits didn't give you those qualities. They were attracted to you _because_ of them."

Flora turned her face up to his, and because she held her brother-warden's opinion in such high regard, she allowed herself to take some comfort from his words. She reached out to touch the side of his handsome face gently, barely sparing a glance to the regal band resting on his coppery hair.

Alistair stared back at his companion, wondering at how the moon filled her pale irises with silvered light; the gold fleck left by the Archdemon gleaming like a coin dropped to the bottom of a fountain.

"Merciful Andraste," he said wonderingly after a moment, eyes dropping to the solemn, full curve of Flora's mouth. "You're growing into such a beautiful woman, Lo. I'll be the envy of every man in Thedas, walking into a room at your side."

Flora kept her solemn gaze fixed on him, grave and steady. Her fingers wandered down his jaw, feeling the neatly trimmed hair he had cultivated in an effort to look older. After tracing the strong angle of his chin, she let her thumb move upwards, brushing over the deceptively arrogant Theirin lip.

Alistair let out an unsteady exhalation as she touched his mouth, as though he had been holding his breath since leaving the Royal Palace. His eyes dropped to Flora's foot resting atop his thigh, then slowly moved upwards; along her bare calf, up to where her navy tunic had been rucked above her knee. He stared at the inches of revealed skin, eyes heavy-lidded and burning with something indescribable.

With one hand resting possessive on her thigh, Alistair twisted his head around to scan the pillared recesses of the Chantry. The chapel was empty; the only movement coming from the shadow cast by Andraste's flickering pyre. The moonlight trailed ghostly fingers across the face of the Maker's Bride, the lips of the statue almost appearing to move in its shifting essence.

Alistair turned back to his best friend, who was sitting motionless on the bench beside him; her face cast in silvered tones by the muted light.

"Come here," he murmured, manoeuvring Flora gently onto his lap. "My Ferelden flower."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: This is the second time that someone has tried to teach Flora to use a dagger, and – just like the first time – she's completely useless! She's just not a weapons-orientated person… at least she's always up for a try, though, lol. I don't think Sten was being a dick particularly here, I think he was just being honest!
> 
> I hope people aren't getting too annoyed with Flo for still grieving over her spirits – the loss was profound, and I wanted to communicate the seriousness of it.


	21. The Sacred and the Profane

Flora shifted her weight, leaning forward on Alistair's thighs as her bare toes brushed the cold tiles of the Chantry floor. The swell of her belly – the child that they had made together – pressed against the contrasting tautness of the king's muscled abdomen. She reached out to trace the outline of her brother-warden's face with two fingers, drawing them together along his strong jaw.

Alistair gazed down at her, feeling an incongruous surge of tenderness to complement the tendrils of lust sprouting in his belly.

_We made this baby at Ostagar, _he thought, suddenly. _I had her over and over, on that mouldering bedroll in the ruins of the Wardens' quarters; and twice in our own tent the next morning. I couldn't keep my hands off her. I still can't, five months later._

_I wonder which coupling led to my seed taking root?_

Seeing a glazed expression settle over Alistair's face, Flora decided to take matters into her own hands. Leaning forward, she cupped her palms against his cheeks, pressing her lips to his. Herring locals were virtuous folk, but they found the Maker in the great vastness of the sea, the howl of the wind over the dunes, the swell of relief when the boats returned safe. Therefore, Flora had absolutely no compunction about initiating intimacy in the man-made construction of the Chantry.

Rousing himself from his reverie, Alistair let out a soft murmur of approval into her mouth. Their lips parted wet against each other; tongues moving with languid and renewed familiarity as he reached up to tangle fingers in her hair.

When they parted at last, flushed and breathless, Flora could feel his arousal pressing urgently between her thighs. Beads of sweat had broken out on Alistair's forehead, and he was gazing fixedly down at her chest.

Looking down, she realised the cause of his fascination. Her nipples were taut against the soft wool of her tunic; undeniable proof of her own arousal. A throaty sound escaped Alistair's throat as he stared, transfixed, one hand moving to the laces crossed across her chest. Fortunately, Flora had not used one of her indecipherable fisherman's knots to fasten the garment closed. One gentle pull at the end of a lace and the material opened itself up; the fabric folding outwards to reveal her bare breasts.

Barely daring to breathe, Alistair reached out to cup one full handful tentatively in his calloused palm. He remembered her mentioning some days ago that they were tender, and took especial care to be gentle. His tongue moved with feather-light grace, laving delicate circles across each swollen mound; tasting her nipple rather than suckling enthusiastically.

Flora curled her fingers into the leather of Alistair's tunic, desperate to anchor herself to him before she slid from his thighs into a helpless puddle on the tiles. Her hips were pulsing, instinctively angling her pelvis towards her brother-warden's abdomen; heat licking through her veins like a mage's electricity. The small, still-rational part of Flora's mind warned her that she ought to be quiet- after all, they were in a _monastery__ – _but it was fighting a losing battle against the encroaching tide of lust.

It had been a month since they had last lain together. During the weeks of chastity, Alistair had nurtured the memory of his lover's quiet, helpless sounds of pleasure, letting them resonate about his skull as he thrust grimly into his own fist.

Now the object of his fantasies was panting soft and wanton against his ear as he lapped at her nipple, the sound so alluring that he wished he could bottle it.

"More," she whispered hoarsely, her wide eyes fixing his with mingled desire and helplessness. "Please."

For a single moment, the rational part of Alistair's mind reminded him that they were in a _Chantry – _a sacred space where he should not be harbouring a single lustful _thought,_ let alone enthusiastically fondling his best friend as she straddled his lap on a bench.

Unfortunately, Alistair's hands had a will of their own, driven by something other than reason. Glancing down, he saw Flora's tunic bundled up around her waist, his fingers already at the laces of her smallclothes. She shifted impatiently on his lap, letting his desirous hands divest her of her undergarments.

The moment that Flora's smallclothes dropped down her calf and onto the tiles, Alistair abandoned caution to the wind; angling her on his thighs so he could better look at her.

"_So_ beautiful, Lo," he murmured, thickly. "You steal the air from my lungs. I've _missed _you."

Alistair's fingers crept over the mound of her stomach; protective and tender at first, then taking on a far more intimate character as they dropped further. Once his hand was resting comfortably between her thighs, his calloused thumb began to move in practised circles.

"You're so sweet," he whispered, listening to the slick confirmation of her arousal. "And I've missed doing this for you, baby."

Flora let her forehead rest on his shoulder, feeling her heart throbbing with escalating vigour against her ribcage. Alistair's lips sought out her ear, gently teasing the lobe with his teeth as he stroked her into squirming ecstasy.

When he dropped his tongue to her nipple, Flora gasped; the sound echoing about the forest of tall pillars surrounding them. Alistair grinned into her breast, grinding his sword-roughened thumb against her most sensitive spot.

"Aaiee- "

"Don't hold back, love," he murmured, feeling her mouthing desperately against his shoulder. "Let it happen, let it _hap- "_

Flora let out a muffled wail, her body convulsing on his thighs; her head flung back with mouth wide and helpless. Alistair pressed his lips to her throat, lapping a line along her neck as he felt her quiver helplessly against him.

He held her tight as she recovered, eyes half-closed and bleary; one large hand stroking the length of her back as he murmured admiration into her ear. Once Flora had clawed back her composure, she leaned forward to whisper her counter-offer; asking only for some assistance in descending to her knees.

Alistair nearly spent himself in his breeches at the prospect, just about managing to restrain himself. For a moment, he was tempted to accept the offer – or simply to take her perched atop his thighs – but distant noises behind the closed rear doorway heralded a return of his senses.

With immense reluctance and an urgent, unsatisfied pulsating in his groin, Alistair reached out and tightened the laces of Flora's tunic, pulling the navy lambswool taut once more. She blinked at him, the corners of her mouth turning down comically. Her expression was one of such blatant outrage that Alistair had to stifle a laugh, knotting the laces in a swift bow before leaning forward to kiss her cheek.

"Darling, don't look at me like that!"

"Like _what," _Flora muttered slightly belligerently, slithering off his lap and reaching up to flatten down her hair.

"Like _that," _Alistair replied with a snort, rising to his feet and helping her to compose herself. "Your Templar chaperones will be back in a minute, and I'm pretty sure that they wouldn't look too kindly on us… having some _out-of-hours prayertime _in their Chantry."

"Hm," said Flora grumpily, shifting from foot to foot and running a hand absent-mindedly over her stomach. The baby turned over, pressing something firm and curved against the inside of her belly.

Alistair's eye was drawn to the movement of her hand, and his expression shifted subtly from amusement to affection. He reached down to cup her stomach with his own fingers, never failing to be astonished at the peculiar sensation of _something _nudging against his palm.

Just then, there came a minor commotion from the back of the Chantry.

"I don't care if I'm interrupting_," _rang out a familiar, imperious voice. "I want to see my sister!"

Flora's face lit up and she turned towards the back entrance, all thoughts of intimacy vanished from her mind.

"Fergus!"

She scuttled, crablike, from the pew; a beam spreading over her face. A large group of people had just entered the Chantry from behind – men clad in Highever colours, Flora's own Templars, Alistair's Royal Guard, and Leliana herself. The bard's face was suffused with exasperation and relief – she had clearly been anticipating that they would find Alistair and Flora in some _compromising position._

Yet Flora's eyes were fixed on her elder brother, recently returned from Highever and still clad in travel leathers. Dust from the road covered Fergus' boots, his auburn curls were rumpled and his beard was sorely in need of a trim.

He held out his arms to his little sister, letting out an unsteady exhalation as she flattened herself readily against him.

"Thank the Maker you're alright," he breathed, bowing his head to press a kiss against her hair. "Finian wrote to me about the assassin. I swear, I'll have the remaining Howes hunted down like _rats."_

Alistair, fervently grateful that he had not succumbed to his baser urges, came to join them; hoping that his face was not too flushed.

Fergus looked up from Flora, his eyebrows rising as he prepared to launch into a tirade of questions. His face was twisted into an ugly blend of wrath and fear.

"The amount of Royal Guard have been doubled," Alistair replied, predicting the teyrn's outraged enquiry. "As have the number of patrols. Bann Teagan is spending his nights down here, sleeping in the same chamber. And Zevran is investigating the source."

The second most powerful man in the realm let out an unsteady exhalation, keeping Flora clamped to his chest. His eyes – which tended more towards blue than grey, having inherited more of Eleanor's colouring than his younger siblings – softened a fraction; mouth twisting with worry.

"My young sister can't defend herself anymore," he said, frankly. "She's as helpless as Oren was. I swear, if anything happens to her- "

"Fergus, everything in our power is being done to ensurer he safety," murmured Leliana, the bard's tone mellifluous and reassuring. "She is never alone."

Fergus let a grunt, lines of fatigue and worry creasing across his forehead. Stepping back, he gazed down at his sister, and his anger softened a fraction.

"Breath of the Maker, Floss. That belly has _grown_ since I last saw you."

"They do say that Theirins make for large infants."

Flora peered over curiously at the man who had spoken. He was clad in Highever colours and appeared in his mid twenties, coppery hair rumpled from the long journey. There was a brutal scar across his cheek, curling down from beneath his eye to the corner of his mouth.

"Florence, this is Ser Gilmore," Fergus said, just about managing to retrieve some courtesy from the depths of his worry. "One of our father's most faithful servants."

Gilmore bowed, his smile distorted by the lurid mark over his jaw.

"And a fellow victim of Howe treachery," he said, returning upright with a rueful grimace. "My lady."

"You were at Highever when it was attacked?" Alistair asked, his own eyebrows rising to his hairline.

Fergus nodded, a shadow falling over his features.

"Gilmore was badly injured in an attempt to defend my father. This is the first he's been able to travel since… since the attack."

"Aye," confirmed Gilmore, his own tone darkening. "Blasted arrow got me in the face."

He gestured to his cheek and Flora flinched, hearing Alistair let out a low whistle.

"Anyway," continued the knight, his gaze swivelling towards Flora once again. "It's a Maker's blessing to see you alive, my lady. I remember you as a child, running amok about Highever and driving Nan to madness."

Flora gazed back at him, vague and polite. She had no idea what _running amok _meant, but it did not sound too endearing. The name _Nan _prompted a brief flicker of recognition, but she could not summon the memory of any matching face.

Fergus turned to the Knight-Commander, who had arrived from his quarters in a mild state of consternation. When the Templar general had agreed to temporarily house the Hero of Ferelden beneath Revanloch's leaking roof tiles, he had not envisioned the likes of kings and teyrns also swarming about the monastery. With beads of sweat rising to his forehead, the man attempted to assuage the fears of a growling Fergus.

Flora soon stopped listening to her brother berate the Templar, the image of the Orlesian Warden-Commander's face manifesting on the forefront of her mind.

"Alistair," she whispered, elbowing the king to get his attention.

"Yes, my dear?"

"_Young__ Caviar_ tried to speak to me today," she said in an undertone, watching a candle in a nearby holster flicker as it neared its waxy base. "About the Fereldan Wardens."

Alistair looked nonplussed, eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

"Young Caviar?" he repeated, bemused. "Who?"

Flora shot Alistair a slightly anxious look, wondering if there was some problem with his memory.

"You know," she said, patiently. "The Orlesian Warden-Commander. Young Caviar."

"_Yvon Cuvillier," _corrected Alistair, just about managing to maintain a straight face. "What did he say?"

Flora shifted her weight off her weak knee, attention caught by the reflection of Andraste's flame flickering across Ser Gilmore's shield.

"He wanted to talk about reforming the Fereldan Wardens. I said that this was a discussion that you needed to be present for, and Loghain Mac Tir, too."

Alistair's brow furrowed, taken aback by the Orlesian soldier's presumption.

"Damned right!" he replied, indignant. "I'm not about to let the Orlesians dictate how the Order will be rebuilt. And... and you're right, Mac Tir ought to be here. He's the only true Fereldan Warden left."

"I'll send a raven up to the castle," murmured Leliana, who had – naturally – been eavesdropping on every word. "We can arrange the talks for tomorrow morning, if you wish. It's a Saturday; so you won't have any royal commitments."

"Typical Lel, knowing my business better than I do myself," Alistair replied, immensely cheered by the prospect of spending the night with Flora under Revanloch's draughty tiles – after all, it made no sense to leave, only to return in a few scant hours.

Since Alistair's presence meant that Teagan was not required for the evening, the bann departed the monastery alongside Fergus. It was a typical Fereldan summer evening, damp and prematurely dark; Revanloch rising like a gloomy spectre from its shroud of sea-mist as it perched atop the cliffs.

Even now - with Justinian fast drawing to a close – it was necessary to light a fire within the chambers of the old monastery. Only the guest quarters, and the private rooms of the Knight-Commander, had the luxury of a hearth; the initiates had to suffice with threadbare woollen blankets.

Within the chamber reserved for Royal guests, Alistair, who could never resist an empty grate and a pile of kindling, was busy demonstrating that he had not become too important to build a fire.

"You need to arrange the small twigs like this, then blow on them," he was busy explaining to Chanter Devotia, who stared back at him with a vague, professional boredom. "Then once you've a flame the size of your palm, you can add the rest of the kindling."

There came a quiet murmuring in the corridor outside as the Royal Guard changed watch, their hushed whispers sliding in through the gap beneath the door. No fixture or fitting sat snug in its frame within decaying Revanloch – panes of glass let in draughts, roof tiles leaked and doors had to be shoved into off-set frames.

Leliana was murmuring to herself with prayer book in hand; an olive-green unguent smeared across her face. Somehow, she had managed to procure yet another piece of flimsy Orlesian lingerie – despite having arrived at Revanloch with only a single leather pack.

Flora, clad in a pair of striped Theirin pyjamas, was already in bed, chewing on the end of a long-handled wooden spoon. She did not understand _why _she felt compelled to do so – all she knew was that she suddenly wished to have something organic in her mouth.

Once the fire was blazing, a proud Alistair returned upright; chin aloft as he surveyed his creation.

"I can still build a good fire," he said into the shadows, reaching to unbutton his tunic. "Haven't lost the knack!"

Leliana closed her prayer-book, clambering into bed beside Flora and making herself comfortable amongst the cushions.

"Skills so ingrained are not easily lost ," the bard murmured, shooting her bed-mate a perplexed look. "_Ma petite, _have you turned into a beaver? You have _demolished_ that spoon."

Indeed, the length of the wooden utensil had been so thoroughly _gnawed_ that it was no longer fit for purpose.

Flora let out a small, dissatisfied grunt – this was merely a poor substitute for what she _really _felt like doing; breaking off fragments of bark from one of the trees in Revanloch's courtyard and devouring them like Orlesian sweetmeats.

"Think of your _teeth- " _Leliana continued, and then broke off abruptly.

Both Flora and Leliana had been immediately distracted by Alistair's divestiture of his under-shirt. The king reached down to pull off his boots, the taut musculature of his olive-toned stomach contracting as he bowed.

Due to her training the bard managed to recover her composure more quickly, hastily donning a lace-edged eye mask as she slithered down the pillows.

The spoon fell from Flora's mouth as she continued to gape shamelessly at her former brother-warden's well-hewn form; which had lost none of its definition from the lack of travelling. Conscious that they would no longer be fighting Darkspawn on a regular basis, Alistair had begun a drill routine to keep himself in prime fighting condition.

"The Orlesian Wardens have agreed to meet tomorrow morning," Alistair said, crossing the room and sliding into bed on Flora's other side. "Mac Tir should have got the message by now. I'm not sure if he can ride yet, but I'm sure he'll find some way to get down here- "

He broke off in mild surprise, looking down to see Flora pressing her face against the hard, protruding muscle of his upper arm.

"Wha- "

"Mmmm.... "

Alistair continued to stare down at her, slightly perplexed. His confusion only mounted as he came across the mangled wooden spoon in the tangle of blankets.

"Are you alright, sweetheart?" he asked, and then flinched as Flora sat bolt upright in shock.

"Aah!"

Leliana put her hands pointedly over her head, rolling over to turn her back on them.

Flora, huge-eyed with alarm, cupped Alistair's ear with a hand and whispered something urgent and unintelligible. Alistair blinked, now entirely confused.

"Baby, I didn't catch that- "

"I left my SMALLCLOTHES in the Chantry," bellowed Flora, the words echoing about the draughty quarters. "My knick-knacks, abandoned in public!"

Leliana hissed like a malevolent bat while the Chanter Devotia mouthed furiously, trying to find suitable words of condemnation from her limited supply. Alistair gaped for a moment, then let out a bark of laughter.

"Right," he replied, clambering back out of bed and reaching for his discarded boots. "As much as it would fulfil some young recruit's wildest dreams to stumble across the lovely lady Cousland's smalls; I have a _civic duty_ to go and retrieve them. Back in a bit, my darling."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Out-of-hours prayertime! I haven't used Alistair's old metaphor for sex in ages, what was Flora's version? Illicit hugging in the Potions cupboard! I definitely think Alistair is a tits man, based on… no real evidence, lol. Just a feeling!
> 
> So chewing on wood is the latest iteration of Flora's odd cravings, haha.


	22. Rebuilding the Ferelden Wardens

A half-hour later, Alistair arrived back in the bedchamber with Flora's smallclothes bunched in his fist, trying his best to maintain a solemn expression. Leliana was snoring softly, curled up on the cushions like a cat; but Flora was still awake, chewing idly on the wooden spoon as she squinted into the darkness.

"Special delivery, darling," the king whispered, tossing the crumpled linen onto the blankets. "I was searching for them for ages, I couldn't remember what pew we were in. The Royal Guard must think me mad."

Alistair sat on the edge of the mattress to pull off his boots, while Flora navigated the nest of tangled furs to wrap her arms around his neck.

"Thank you," she whispered, plastering kisses over his bare shoulder. "I'm sorry to inconvenience you."

He reached up to cover her hand with his larger palm, rubbing his thumb wistfully over the knuckle of her bare ring finger.

"Anything for you, my sweet queen."

Flora paused for a moment, her lips hovering just above the lobe of Alistair's ear. Somehow, that particular term of endearment seemed a little more _weighty_ than when he had used it previously. There was a purpose in the word that was almost a _promise, _and she did not quite understand what it meant.

Then Alistair twisted his head to smile at her, the mellow whiskey-toned eyes loaned especial richness from the hearth-light. Flora stared back at him, her lips slightly parted.

"What are you thinking, Lola?"

"That you're the most handsome man in Thedas," she replied, immediate and honest. "And also… that I want to go and chew on a tree."

"A _tree?!"_

"Mm. I don't know why."

* * *

The next morning, on the way to meet the Orlesian Wardens, Flora finally got her wish. Alistair stood at the side of the inner courtyard, watching in open mouthed perplexity as his mistress broke off a shard of bark from a nearby tree. Standing beneath the shade of its obliging branches, Flora chewed away happily; a blissful expression on her face.

"I don't understand," Alistair muttered to his elder uncle, who had just arrived from the palace to join the meeting. "Is there some sort of _nutritional value _to it? Does the baby like eating… eating _wood?"_

Eamon suppressed a laugh at the mixture of anxiety and sheer confusion on the king's face, infusing reassurance into his reply.

"Don't worry, son. It's quite normal for women with child to have such… _cravings. _Isolde used to eat lumps of coal from the hearth when she was expecting Connor."

A brief flicker of sadness crossed Eamon's face, as it always did whenever his only child came up.

"Don't worry," the arl continued, forcing his mind from the Circle Tower where his son was currently confined. "It won't do the lass any harm, nor the babe."

Flora crossed the courtyard towards them, her face flushed with contentment.

"Thank you for waiting," she said, earnestly. "I feel a lot better now. And I took some snacks for later!"

She held out her pocket, showing several chunks of bark secreted away.

There were not many chambers within Revanloch that were suitable for meetings – after all, the ostensible purpose of the building was for _reflection, _not for politicking.

Therefore, the audience between the Fereldan nobility and the Orlesian Wardens had to take place within the same classroom where Yvon had confronted Flora the previous night. A vain attempt had been made to arrange the room for more solemn purpose: the desks had been manoeuvred into a circle, although the chalkboard at the front of the room rather spoilt the illusion.

Flora – who had never excelled within a classroom context – had nevertheless been cheered up by the sight of her lanky best friend trying to fit himself behind the initiate's desk.

"Maker's Breath," Alistair complained eventually, just about managing to fold his frame into the diminutive space. "Can you even _fit, _Flo?"

"Yes," replied Flora, indignantly. "I can – ouch."

Although she could fit well enough, the unforgiving hard line of the seat did not feel particularly good against her sore back. Alistair, whose head had spun at Flora's grunt of pain, immediately demanded that cushions be brought.

Loghain Mac Tir arrived during the delay, limping markedly and leaning on a wooden crutch. The false limb allowed for relatively free movement, but it would take some length of time to get used to. The former general inclined his head towards Alistair, his tone gruff.

"I'd bow in the proper manner," he muttered, drily. "Except I suspect I may fall."

"It's fine," Alistair replied, hastily. "You're a Grey Warden, there's no need to bow."

Loghain lifted his chin in wry acknowledgement, then turned his dark gaze on Flora; letting out the northerner's soft grunt of greeting.

"How are you feeling, lass?"

"Alright," replied Flora, stoically.

"The babe moving well?"

"Mm, all the time."

Once several hassocks from the Chantry had been brought and carefully wedged at the base of Flora's spine, the summit between Ferelden nobles and Orlesian Wardens could begin.

Eamon glanced sideways at Alistair, ready to step in if his nephew required direction.

Alistair, however, had spent the morning working himself up into a state of mild indignation. As Yvon Cuvillier opened his mouth to speak, the king of Ferelden cut straight across him; blunt and unforgiving as a negligent headsman's axe.

"Warden-Commander, I appreciate your coming here to offer assistance with rebuilding the Fereldan Order, but assistance is _all _we require. The lady Cousland and I may no longer have the taint, but we both still wish to superviser the rebuilding of the Wardens. Loghain Mac Tir lives, and must have some role to play."

Yvon Cuvillier raised an eyebrow, his tawny gaze swinging across to where the former teyrn was sitting, the wooden limb jutting awkwardly out to one side.

"The man known across Thedas as the Great Traitor of Ferelden?" he asked, deliberately neutral. The greying woman at his side, Clarel, let out a barely audible snort.

Loghain made no verbal response, merely lifted a shoulder in recognition. He was well aware that thirty years of loyal service to Ferelden had been erased by a single command; given in a rain-soaked valley in the shadow of Ostagar; _retreat._

Flora had opened her mouth, ready to come to Loghain's defence; but to her surprise, Alistair was already there.

"Mac Tir has repented for his actions," he retorted, immediately and without hesitation. "He took the taint and was prepared to give his own life to save Ferelden."

"And he _did_ end up giving his leg," Flora added solemnly.

_And he saved me from Howe. And from the maleficar in the sewers._

"So, what do you propose?" Yvon Cuvillier replied, leaning forward on the desk and steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

Alistair glanced sideways at Eamon, who gave a small nod. Two servants clad in Theirin finery trooped in with a map held between them, angling it so that those gathered at the desks could see.

The Arl of Redcliffe stood, retrieving a pointer from the lecturer's stand, then dropped the wooden tip to a settlement in the north-east of the country.

"This is Vigil's Keep, the oldest fortress within Ferelden. It's large enough to house a decently-sized force, and comes with adequate training grounds. The Wardens could use it as a base from which to rebuild their numbers."

Yvon nodded slowly, standing to gain a better view of the marked location.

"That should suffice well enough," he murmured, his Val Royeaux inflection shaping the vowels as they slipped from his throat. "In whose territory does it lie?"

"The former seat of Howe," replied Alistair, barely masking his disgust. "The arling of Amaranthine. But the entire Howe family has been attainted, by demand of the Landsmeet."

"So who owns it now? Presumably it is their permission that must be sought," interjected Clarel, Yvon's shorn-headed lieutenant.

"The new arlessa of Amaranthine," said Eamon, after a long moment. "Florence, will you let the Wardens use Vigil's Keep as a base to rebuild and recruit the Order?"

Flora blinked for a moment, her brow furrowing.

"Eeeh?"

Alistair realised, in the face of assassins, post-Blight confusion and Riordan's funeral, he had entirely neglected to tell Flora that she was now the arlessa of the territory that bordered Denerim to the north.

"Sorry, sweetheart," he muttered in an undertone, leaning across to direct his words into her ear. "I forgot to tell you. The Landsmeet have granted you the arling of Amaranthine, as a reward for your services during the Fifth Blight."

Flora looked slightly nonplussed and a touch perturbed; the only arlessa she knew of was Isolde, whom she did not particularly like. Still, she was a child of Herring – and therefore a master of blank-faced stoicism – and did not want to embarrass her best friend before the Orlesian contingent. Without any concept of what being an _arlessa _entailed, she lifted her chin.

"That's fine," she said, kindly. "The Wardens can have Vigil's Keep."

Yvon nodded, as one of his juniors made a brief note on a sheet of parchment.

Alistair cleared his throat, grateful to his beloved for not causing a scene.

"And as for the new Warden-Commander," he continued, in measured tones. "Loghain Mac Tir has experience in military matters – including recruitment – and his loyalty to Ferelden is undoubted. However, the Landsmeet would not be happy at giving Mac Tir sole autonomy over an independent militia within Ferelden's borders, in light of recent events."

Loghain inclined his head in acknowledgement, his dark Mac Tir eyes watchful.

"So – if you have a suitable candidate in mind – I would propose a _joint _leadership," Alistair continued, steadily. "Loghain Mac Tir alongside an experienced Orlesian."

A rueful snort escaped from Loghain, as a reluctant smile curled the corner of his mouth.

"You've the slyness of your father, your majesty."

Yvon nodded slowly, his lazy, leonine gaze sliding sideways to Flora.

"And would the Warden-Commander be amenable to this?"

"Yes," replied Flora, immediately. "I think it's an _excellent_ idea."

Alistair, delighted at such lofty praise from the person whose opinion he valued most, shot Flora a fleeting, proud smile; squeezing her knee affectionately beneath the table.

"And who would I have the _pleasure_ of working with?" Loghain remarked drily, dark gaze moving from one Orlesian Warden to another.

Yvon made a gesture to a tall woman with braided, greying dark hair wound in a tight bun. Her angular face was avian and memorable; her nose prominent and her eyes black as onyx stones.

"My captain, Leonie Caron, has led recruitment for the Orlesian Wardens for the past decade. Our membership numbers swelled after her appointment."

"Where in Orlais are you from, captain?" Eamon asked, having mentally run _Caron_ through his index of Orlesian nobility and come up wanting. "I am unfamiliar with the name."

"Val Royeaux," replied Leonie Caron, in an accent that most definitely did not come from any noble house. "And not from the nice parts. I've no family to speak of, save for my brethren in the Wardens."

The briefest flicker of relief passed over Loghain's face: _if he must work with an Orlesian, at least it wasn't one from some pompous branch of the peerage._

"And your experience?" Alistair asked bluntly, surveying the woman who would be responsibility for caretaking Duncan's legacy.

Yvon opened his mouth, but Caron herself replied in steady and measured tones.

"Fifteen years of service in the Wardens," she began, looking the king directly in the eye. "Responsible for recruiting nearly eight hundred Wardens over ten years. Oversaw the cleansing of a section of the Deep Roads nearly ten miles long. Led the purging of over thirty Darkspawn nests."

"An impressive resumé," Eamon murmured, thoughtfully turning the quill between his old warrior's fingers. "If the king is happy, I see no reason why this shouldn't be enacted immediately."

Alistair nodded, trying in vain to suppress a grin at the thought of Loghain having to work in close quarters with an Orlesian.

"There are still pockets of Darkspawn resistance within Ferelden that'll need to be dealt with," he stated, flatly. "It sounds as though you're well-qualified to deal with them."

There followed silence for a long moment, before Yvon Cuvillier lifted his lion-like head towards Flora.

"Then, if it is agreed, there is but one last thing to be done," he murmured, rising to his feet. "Warden-Commander Cousland, do you relinquish control of the Ferelden Order?"

Flora, with slightly more difficulty, pushed herself to her feet. Her heart gave a lurch, and for a moment she envisioned Duncan's spirit hovering near the chalkboard, looking at her with the faint smile that she could still just about recall. Leonie Caron rose to a stand; Loghain following with a soft grunt of stiffness.

"I… I relinquish control," Flora repeated, grateful that her voice sounded somewhat steady.

Yvon's voice expanded to fill the classroom, his rich, Orlesian tones reverberating about the plastered walls.

"Scribe, note for the records," he declared, smoothly. "That on the nineteenth day of Justinian – _Ferventis _in the old calendar – Warden-Commander Florence Cousland, Vanquisher of the Fifth Blight, willingly relieved her command to Wardens Mac Tir and Caron; who will henceforth lead the Ferelden Order."

Leonie Caron cleared her throat, piercing black eyes lifting to meet Loghain's.

"I suggest we ride to Vigil's Keep immediately," she stated, no longer requiring permission of her former senior officer to speak. "I want to see the condition of the buildings. Can you ride?"

"Aye," replied Loghain, grudgingly admiring the woman's forthrightness. "That's a… sound idea."

As the two conferred in reserved tones, Flora found herself in oddly wistful mood. She had not even _wanted_ to be Warden-Commander – she still remembered her shock when Wynne had named her such in the courtyard of South Reach – but she had come to accept it, much as Alistair had accepted the mantle of king.

Then she felt fingers sliding into hers, a familiar calloused palm pressed against her own. Used to deciphering the minute changes in his former sister-warden's face, Alistair had reached out beneath the desks to _fish-rope _her, providing continuity in the midst of this great change. Flora clutched his hand tightly, inordinately grateful.

_My anchor, _she thought, feverishly. _I might no longer be mage or Warden, but I'm still your best friend._

The Orlesian Warden-Commander lingered after Loghain and Leonie Caron's departure from the classroom; making a subtle gesture to the scribe.

"Your Majesty, a moment, if you will."

Alistair paused, having retrieved the hassock cushions from Flora's seat and deposited them into the arms of a servant.

"Yes?"

Yvon Cuvillier bowed his head towards Flora, eyes dropping reflexively to the swell of her stomach.

"I apologise if this seems forward," he murmured, in decorous tone. "But it ought to be recorded, both for posterity, and for the archives. When exactly was the child conceived?"

"Maker's Breath," muttered Alistair, wishing that Eamon had already left the chamber. The arl busied himself with a retainer, blatantly pretending that he was not eavesdropping. "Well, it would have been when we were at Ostagar, so – around the beginning of Drakonis?"

"Carp season," added Flora, helpfully.

Yvon, who had never handled a fishing rod in his life, shot her a slightly bemused look as the scribe made a note.

"And the conception occurred in the – _ahem_ – usual way?"

Alistair's jaw dropped in disbelief and he let out a slightly incredulous snort.

"As opposed to what? By _osmosis? _For Andraste's sake! Yes, it happened the _usual_ way. Happy? Or do you want even more _details?_ It was a cloudy night, the bedroll was covered in mildew, I think it was snowing- "

"It _was_ snowing," Flora clarified, helpfully. "You had snowflakes in your hair. They melted and dripped onto me."

Alistair's gaze softened, and he turned to face his lover; reaching out to slide a hand through her hair.

"I remember thinking afterwards, that there was no way back," he said, very quietly. "I could never be just your friend anymore, not now I had seen you in the way I had."

Flora smiled vaguely at him, letting the memories rise to the surface of her mind like seaweed cast up by the tide. She remembered the way that he had looked immediately afterwards, gazing down at her with a mixture of adoration and astonishment.

"Anyway, " Alistair said after a moment, turning back to Yvon Cuvillier with a wry, incredulous smile. "I don't know what else you want. Eyewitnesses? A _reenactment?"_

Flora beamed, her face brightening.

Yvon shook his head magnanimously, glancing to his shorn-headed lieutenant.

"That, ah, won't be necessary, your majesty. Thank you for your time, King Alistair, Lady Cousland."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So this was my solution to the taking over of the Fereldan Wardens – since neither Flora nor Alistair has the taint any more, they can't do it! But I always thought it was a bit odd that everyone would be ok with some Orlesian coming in to run a militia within Ferelden borders! This is my way of resolving that issue – a joint responsibility between Loghain and an Orlesian. So they can keep an eye on each other!
> 
> Yvon doesn't recommend Clarel to take over, because he knows that he'll be experiencing the Calling soon, and she's going to take over the Orlesian Order.


	23. Naming Baby

After the Orlesian Wardens had departed, conversing softly in their melodic native tongue; Eamon, Flora and Alistair were left alone in the classroom. The lunch gong sounded in the distance, followed by the cacophonous thudding of several hundred feet heading into the dining hall.

Yet Flora, unusually, made no movement towards lunch. Instead, she reached out and put a hand on Alistair's arm, her expression entreating.

"Alistair?"

Alistair had an inclination as to what she was about to say, an apology already rising to his lips.

"Darling- "

"I'm an _arlessa?"_

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry that I didn't tell you about Amaranthine. I didn't – I didn't want to give you anything more to worry about, what with everything else going on. The Landsmeet approved it last week."

Flora gnawed on her lip for a moment, then turned grave and solemn eyes up to him.

"I'm very grateful," she began, measuredly. "I think it's very nice of you, but… I don't need a reward for helping during the Fifth Blight. I just asked for a feast, and that's happening soon, so…"

She gave a mild shrug, as Alistair and Eamon glanced at each other. They had suspected that Flora might react this way; and the arl of Redcliffe had already devised a solution.

"Then how about your brother – Finian – taking temporary ownership?" Eamon suggested, swiftly. "Despite the Orlesian frippery, there's a sound head on those gangly shoulders. The men respect him, after he led Highever into battle. Since he's unlikely to have heirs – unless something drastic changes with his, ah, _predilections in partner _– Amaranthine would revert back to your children in the future."

Flora gave a little nod, turning back to Alistair.

"That sounds good," she replied, placidly. "Do I have to say: _I_ _relinquish being arlessa, _like I did Warden-Commander?"

Eamon snorted, shaking his head.

"That won't be necessary, lass."

* * *

Shortly afterwards, a reluctant Alistair returned to Denerim for yet other inimitable meeting – this time with the mercantile guild. They were determined to make a concerted effort to rebuild the Fereldan trade network, which would first require repairs to be made to the broken King's Highway, and other roads damaged by the Darkspawn.

He arrived back at Revanloch shortly after sunset, vaulting off his sweating horse and leaving it in the safe hands of the stable-boys. Trailing Royal Guardsmen, the king took the steps up to the guest chamber two at a time; causing much consternation as those he encountered dropped into bows hasty enough to make their heads spin.

He found Leliana in the upper hallway, conversing as best she could with a stern-faced Chanter Devotia. Leliana greeted him with a peck on the cheek, her own blue eyes sparkling with interest.

"What a calling to follow," the bard mused, enraptured. "To dedicate oneself so _wholly_ to the Chant that one utters nothing else. How selfless, how pious!"

"How impossible for you, Lel," Alistair added, amiably. "You enjoy the sound of your own voice _far_ too much."

Leliana let her slender fingers collide delicately with his elbow, feigning outrage.

"Honestly! Such cheek."

Alistair grinned at the Orlesian's slender shoulder-blades, following the lay sister as she ascended the final set of steps with the fleet footedness of an elven _halla._

Templars and initiates dropped into further rapid bows as the King of Ferelden strode down the corridors; his gaze fixed purposefully in the direction of the guest quarters.

Leliana kept up a light patter of conversation as they wound their way through Revanloch's labyrinthine passageways.

"How are the preparations for the coronation going?"

Alistair shrugged a shoulder, just about restraining himself from letting out a soft and exasperated grunt.

"I don't even understand why I _need _to be officially coronated, anyway. I'm king already, aren't I? I'm wearing a fancy hat and people call me _Your Majesty._"

"It's tradition, Alistair. The people expect it. Besides, aren't you intending to wife our lovely Florence as part of the ceremony? That's what the Chantry Mother mentioned the other morning. Theirin and Cousland united in the Eyes of the Maker: hence, the realm stable for the foreseeable future."

Alistair contorted his face wordlessly; Leliana was a skilled interpreter of facial expression. The bard raised a plucked eyebrow with a small sigh, gesturing them onto the guest corridor.

"It seems as though the bride herself is going to be the last to know about her own upcoming nuptials. Assure me that you at least plan to propose before the _morning of the ceremony!"_

"I'm going to," retorted Alistair, indignantly. "I just want it to be _perfect. _Everything else about how Flo and I got together was all…. well, it was all death, and despair, and Darkspawn. But this can be different."

Leliana flashed him a quick, wistful smile, pausing before a narrow window to admire the streaked apricot and mauve of sunset.

"It's a sweet notion, but don't leave it _too_ long, _hm?"_

Alistair nodded dutifully, courtesy dictating that he wait for the bard as she gazed at the waning sun.

"How is Lo?" he asked, trying not to convey impatience through his tone.

"Tired," Leliana murmured in response, watching the ghostly outline of a constellation emerge from the twilight. "The babe has worn her out today, I fear. She's slept on and off for much of the afternoon."

As Alistair's mouth dropped open in dismay, Leliana stifled a smile and reached out to put a reassuring hand on the new father's elbow.

"It's wholly normal, Alistair. Don't fret."

Alistair grimaced, abandoning courtly manners and striding off down the corridor without a further word. To his gratification, the doorway to the guest chamber was guarded by no less than _four _Templars – the Knight-Commander was clearly taking no chances.

Knight-Captain Gannorn opened the door, greeting the king with a neutral inclination of the head. Alistair half-expected his former sister-warden to be asleep, but Flora was sitting up against the cushions, slightly paler than usual but appearing cheerful enough. Leonas Bryland was sitting at her bedside, _Sea Creatures of Tevinter Legend _clasped in his non-mangled hand. An expression of sheer incredulity contorted his grizzled features as he stared down at the contents of the pages.

"Lo!"

Lifting the crown from his head and setting it on the dresser, Alistair crossed the room in three lengthy strides and perched on the mattress. Flora smiled at him, reaching out her hands for him to clutch. His anxious hazel gaze searched her face, noting the shadows beneath his best friend's eyes and the slight waxiness of her skin.

"Love, how are you feeling?"

"Fine," Flora replied, blinking up at him. "But I've slept for _hours,_ in the middle of the day! My dad would be horrified. Herring folk don't _nap."_

Alistair inhaled, kissing her fingertips with a slightly feverish intensity.

"Arl Leonas has been reading with me," Flora continued, her smile widening. "And he brought me a _plant. _I'm going to try and keep it alive without magic!"

She gestured across to the windowsill, where a pale green tendril sprouted tentatively from a pot.

"I'll be in the dining hall when you're ready to leave, lad," Leonas offered, rising to his feet with a soft grunt. "And I'll see _you_ soon, pup."

As the general departed Alistair leaned forward, stroking his fingers over his mistress's forehead and flattening the rumpled hair with his palm. Dropping his hand to the back of Flora's neck, he touched his forehead to hers gently, pressing them together for a long moment.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, and she smiled at the endearment, her pale eyes anchoring themselves to his. "Is the baby misbehaving itself already? I heard it's been wearing you out."

"Yes," she replied, immediate and indignant. "It keeps poking me in the kidneys, even when I order it to _stop. _It must get this disobedience from you; I always did what I was told as a child."

_Or at least I did when I was in Herring, _she thought to herself, grimly. _It sounds like I was a brat in Highever._

Alistair inhaled, pulling the blanket back to gaze at Flora's swollen stomach. The folds of her striped Theirin pyjamas draped open, revealing the firm curve of peachy flesh that seemed so incongruous on her slight frame. He leaned forward to put his face close, assuming his best stern expression.

"Stop prodding your mother," he instructed, solemnly. "I'm the king of Ferelden, and you have to listen to me."

Alistair pressed a tender kiss to the ripe mound, feeling something shift beneath the thin band of muscle. Flora reached down to touch his tousled, tawny head as it bowed before her; Alistair caught her fingers and entangled them tightly within his own.

"Have you had any ideas about _names_ yet?" he asked, tentatively. "I was thinking about some on the ride over."

Flora was momentarily startled, her eyes widening a fraction.

_I've called you 'little creature' for so long that I almost believed it was actually your name._

"I don't know," she said, astonished. "I hadn't thought about it at all."

Alistair smiled at her wonderingly, still bemused at the odd circumstances of _them _becoming parents.

"Give me a name – your gut feeling!" he demanded, catching Flora off-guard. "Quick, Lo, what're your instincts saying to you?"

"Tuna," she replied, alarmed.

Alistair's jaw dropped and he stared at her with utter incredulity.

"_Tuna?"_

At the doorway, Chanter Devotia and Knight-Commander Gannorn shared a look of mutual disbelief.

"Yes," Flora retorted, defiantly. "What's wrong with it?"

"What's _right_ with it?!" countered Alistair, his hazel irises round as copper coins. "Why on earth would you name an innocent baby after a _fish?"_

"Not just _any _fish," said Flora, stubbornly. She was prepared to defend her impulsive response, despite being wholly aware that it was also ridiculous. "The tuna is strong and powerful. It provides meat for many people. It swims _majestically."_

A muscle in the corner of Alistair's jaw flickered as he gazed at her, unsure whether or not she was joking. Flora's solemn expression gave no clue away, her grey eyes fixed earnestly on his.

"Let's have a look in here for some inspiration," he replied at last, kicking off his boots and reaching for the pile of books stacked on Leliana's cabinet.

The stars emerged like bright lanterns, hanging from a veil of twilight like some fantastical ornamentation in an Orlesian whorehouse. The initiates within Revanloch went to attend evening prayers; the piety of their hymns echoing down the monastery's draughty halls and cobwebbed hollows.

Within the chamber reserved for royal guests, Flora and Alistair rested side by side on the bed and poured through several of Leliana's heftier tomes. The far more literate Alistair would scan the pages, pointing out the various names and letting his companion enunciate them with meticulous care.

Teagan arrived, travel cloak slung over his arm, just as they were puzzling over an entry from _The Legend Of Calenhad: Volume One._

"Right," said Alistair, nodding a greeting to his uncle. "So, from this chapter, we have Myrddin and Simeon for boys, or Shayna and Mairyn for girls. What do you think?"

Flora, who was chewing the edge of a shard of bark, gave a little shrug.

"It has to be something I can spell," she said, eventually. "I don't think I could spell any of those."

Alistair closed the book, sneezing as a plume of dust billowed straight up his nose.

"Uncle, what names do you think sound authoritative and powerful?"

"Teagan," said Teagan, flashing them a wry grin as he hung his cloak on a nearby stand. "Can you spell that, poppet?"

"T-e-e-g-i-n," recited Flora, vaguely. "Is that right?"

"Not far off," replied the bann kindly, going to retrieve his bedroll and blankets from where they were kept beside the window. "Can you spell Alistair's name yet?"

Flora scowled - not appreciating the impromptu literacy test - but she liked Teagan and made a valiant attempt to rise to the challenge.

"A-l-i-s-t-a-r-e," she offered, then caught sight of Knight-Captain Gannorn's incredulous expression and grimaced. "Oh, is that wrong? It's _wrong, _isn't it?"

Knowing that his best friend was still self-conscious about her poor literacy, Alistair drew Flora's head towards his and pressed his lips to her cheek.

"I adore you more than a nug loves elfroot," he said, kindly. "My lovely Lo."

"I adore you too," replied Flora without hesitation, pulling a small face. "And I hope that the baby gets _your _brains, rather than mine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Literally everyone knows now that the upcoming coronation is actually a coronation/wedding, lol – apart from Flora herself!
> 
> I've read several fanfictions where a pregnant Warden names the baby Duncan, and I did think about it for a while – but Flora and Alistair, by mutual silent agreement, have agreed not to do so. They've got other ways in mind to remember Duncan, rather than saddling a baby with such a weighty, solemn and sad memory. So, no consensus on names yet! But it's definitely not any names mentioned in this chapter, haha. Those names were actually taken from the codex entry for Legend of Calenhad!


	24. No More Oysters

On a damp and drizzly afternoon several days later, Flora met with the head cook from Denerim's Royal Palace. Their purpose was to discuss the feast which would shortly take place to celebrate Flora's role in ending the Fifth Blight. Her flippant, offhand comment from months prior had been taken seriously – to her slight awe and embarrassment.

In truth, Flora did not want any reward. She did not want to become an arlessa, and she certainly did not expect any _monetary _compensation. Flora had requested that her Herring-dad be purchased a new fishing boat – and as far as she was concerned, that was sufficient. However, everybody seemed determined to impose some sort of remuneration upon her; and so she had agreed to a feast in the hope that the nagging would end.

It was a typical Fereldan summer day – despite it nearing the end of Justinian, a vast swathe of raincloud hung overhead, blurring the line between sea and sky. Rain pattered against Revanloch's leaded roof, water running in rivulets down the walls where it had managed to find some gap in the roof. Puddles formed across the uneven flagstones of the inner courtyards, and the younger, rowdier initiates delighted in crashing their boots into the pooling water.

Flora met with the head cook in the Knight-Commander's office; with the classrooms all in use, the chief Templar had volunteered his own quarters. The man – a balding human in his middle years with a belly that suggested he frequently partook of his own dishes – was so intimidated by Flora at first that he was barely able to speak.

Flora gazed in perplexion at the man as he blushed and fumbled with his recipe cards, bemused as to the cause of his discomfort. She knew that the solemn, haughty beauty of her face sometimes made her seem cold and unapproachable, but the cook had seen her many times before, during her residence in the Royal Palace.

"I'm sorry," she said at last, hating to see anyone in such squirming discomfort as the portly man accidentally dropped his sheath of recipe cards on the tiles. "Am I doing something to... disturb you?"

"No!" squawked the cook, crimson flooding to his cheeks. "No, no, no, my lady – your great _dragon-slayeriness_\- Madame Hero of Ferelden- "

Flora realised then that it was not so much her _face, _but her _accomplishments_ that served to intimidate. As the blushing cook spread the recipe cards across the table, she pulled an apologetic face at him.

"Please," she asked, wide-eyed and earnest. "Would you be able to speak them to me? I can't read very well."

As Flora had hoped, her humble request made the man a little more comfortable in her presence. In a far steadier voice, he read out the list of dishes that would be served in a few days time.

"A pottage of ham and leek; capon with blackberry sauce; ragout of wild deer; fried oranges from Antiva; eel and trench pie; honey-mustard spiced eggs…"

Flora had no idea what half of these dishes were, but nodded solemnly at each one regardless.

"Who is coming to the feast?" she asked curiously as the man paused for breath. "Will the army leaders be coming? The nobles?"

"The armies have already feasted and departed, my lady," the cook replied. "The nobles have also already hosted their own private banquets for their retainers. This feast is for _you, _and you can invite whomsoever you wish."

"Huh," said Flora, shifting in her seat as the little creature nudged against her spine. "Is it taking place in the Royal Palace?"

"Wherever you desire, my lady. If you wish to eat in the gardens – although perhaps _not, _if the weather is like this – it can easily be arranged."

Flora thought for a long moment and then smiled at him; her eyes thoughtful.

"Thank you."

The sun emerged after lunch, pale and insipid at first but then increasing in intensity as the hours drew on. To Flora's relief, the babe had deigned not to leech the entirety of her energy that day; she was able to accompany Leliana down to the rocky beach at the base of Revanloch's high promontory. Knight-Captain Gannorn, envisioning the king's limitless wrath if she fell, barely dared to breathe as Flora clambered across the seaweed-covered stones.

But Flora had spent more of her life traversing mossy rocks than she had tiled floors, and she was wholly comfortable with navigating the treacherous slippery surface. While Leliana covered herself in sunlight atop the flat edge of a boulder; Flora perused the various rock pools, dropping an expert hand into their navy crevasses. Sure enough, she had soon collected nearly half a bucket's worth of oysters.

However, to Flora's dismay, the moment that she cracked open a shell, she felt a violent curling of nausea in her stomach; strong enough that bile rose to the back of her throat.

In horror, she let the oyster drop onto the sand and went to wake Leliana, who was dozing in the late-afternoon heat.

"The baby doesn't like oysters!" Flora bemoaned loudly, as the bard grimaced and shielded her eyes from the sun. "I don't think it's related to me. How can it not like oysters? I just spent an hour collecting my midnight snack."

She scowled, giving the bucket a little discontented rattle.

Leliana ended up taking the collection of unfortunate oysters to the smoky labyrinth of Revanloch's kitchens; where the cooks took them with mild suspicion. Seafood was not a frequent occurrence in the diet of a Templar – the recruits existed on vegetable pottage, while the officers were afforded meat.

The bard ducked out of the kitchens, hearing a rattle behind her that sounded suspiciously like a large quantity of oysters being dumped out of a window. She met Flora at the foot of the stairs, and the two made their way back towards the guest quarters. Flora made little conversation; she was still sulking over the oysters, hands and feet covered in sand, and her hair teased into untidy whorls by the salt-laced breeze.

The presence of crimson and gold clad Royal Guard in the upper passageway indicated that Alistair had already arrived. Flora perked up a fraction, tilting her cheek for Leliana to kiss as the bard prepared to take her leave.

"I'll leave you in Alistair's capable hands," the lay sister murmured distractedly, already planning what she intended to do with her two hours of relative freedom. The Grand Cleric had been so impressed with Leliana's exquisite singing voice that she had requested the bard perform a solo at the next day's Evensong.

The Royal Guard flanking the entrance to the guest chamber shifted their pikes to acknowledge Flora's arrival. One opened the door for her; with a smile of gratitude, she stepped inside the chamber, blinking at the dimness within.

Alistair – worried that the chamber might be too cold for his pregnant mistress – was just drawing the heavy curtains closed, shutting out the chilly evening air. A fire had already been lit in the hearth, though its flickering reach only extended partway across the dusty floorboards.

Although the connection of shared blood between them had been severed, Alistair still recognised the sound of his former sister-warden's step. He turned around, unable to stop a reflexive grin from spreading across his face as he set eyes on Flora.

"Sweetheart!"

Flora beamed back at him, barely registering the golden band atop his head or the _facial hair of authority _sprouting from his jaw. Instead, she saw only her best friend and long-time companion, and went scuttling eagerly into his open arms.

Alistair embraced her, delighted in no less degree. After clutching her tightly to his chest for several long moments, he drew back a fraction and dropped his hand to her stomach, sliding an affectionate palm over the swollen mound of flesh.

"How are you feeling, darling?" he asked, gratified to see her looking fresh-faced and beaming.

"Good," she replied immediately, peering up at him through her eyelashes. "I slept well last night."

Alistair smiled down at her, lifting his palm to cup her cheek; brushing a thumb along her angular cheekbone.

"But," a solemn Flora added, watching her best friend's expression change almost comically at the conjunction. "I don't think the baby can be related to me."

Alistair looked somewhat perplexed, looking at her, then down at her stomach, then back at her face. His eyebrows shot into his hairline.

"Wha- ?!"

"It doesn't like _oysters," _Flora complained, indignant. "How can it not like oysters? They're the _best. _They're so flavourful, and salty; and you don't need to waste time _cooking _them, you can just eat eighteen at once without stopping. They look so beautiful, with their shiny black shells, like… like _mysterious snails of the sea."_

Alistair studied his best friend's earnest face as she soliloquised about the qualities of oysters; trying his hardest not to laugh out loud. A legacy of her Herring upbringing, Flora rarely spoke in such volume outside exceptional circumstance.

"Maker's Breath," he said, as she paused to inhale. "You make me so happy, Flo."

Flora interrupted herself mid-sentence and smiled shyly up at him; he gazed back down at her, with the green filaments standing out stark in his hazel irises.

Without another word, Alistair drew her down onto the window bench, letting their mouths collide in lazy trajectory. As he kissed her tenderly and without reservation, Flora curled her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck; vaguely remembering a time when he had been too self-conscious to kiss her in public. As Alistair had grown more comfortable with the notion of being king, he had also become accustomed to the lack of true privacy that accomplished such a status.

Still, if they had been in the Royal Palace, the king would have eventually ordered any other occupiers of the room to leave. As it stood, Alistair was not entirely sure that his jurisdiction held within Revanloch, and so did not order the Templars to depart.

Chanter Devotia was snoring on a pallet near the door, in preparation to take the second half of the night shift. Knight-Captain Gannorn gritted his teeth, raised his eyes to the ceiling, and hoped very much that the king was not planning to actually _bed _his mistress. Based on tavern songs he had heard on the occasional patrol around the city, the new Theirin and his crimson-headed Cousland were known for their brazenness. Fortunately for the uncomfortable Templar, the occupants of the window seat managed to exercise some degree of restraint.

Flora inhaled unsteadily, able to breathe only when Alistair's mouth wandered down her throat, his hand pulling her hair loose from its restraining band. Moments later, his lips were parting hers once more, his tongue insistent on laying claim to her mouth as though it were territory to be won.

With Flora's back angled towards the Templar, Alistair was able to work his hand through the opening of her tunic, seeking the curve of her bare breast. He kissed her ear as his fingers meandered gently over the firm mounds of flesh; considerate of their new sensitivity.

In contrast to the tenderness of his touch, Alistair's gaze caught Flora's like a barbed hook. His pupils were blown wide and black with desire, all traces of her compassionate brother-warden vanished in a swell of raw-edged lust.

"By the Maker, Lo," he whispered in her ear, voice throaty and desirous. "I want you so badly, I can't think straight. All I can think of in meetings is _you,_ naked on the furs in the Royal bedchamber."

He ducked his mouth to her neck, tugging the soft skin gently with his teeth as his fingers sought out her nipple.

Flora tilted her head to the side with an appreciative little grunt, trying to envision herself posing seductively amidst the velvet cushions. The thought amused her slightly – sexual allure had always been more Leliana's area of expertise. Additionally, with her swollen stomach, sore feet and aching back; she did not feel at her most _beguiling._

Suddenly, there came a confident rap on the window, several inches from Flora's head. A figure cloaked in shadow crouched on the sill, features obscured and the glint of weapons at their hip.

Alistair reflexively drew his mistress into his arms, twisting to position his own torso between Flora and the glass. From the doorway, the Knight-Captain drew his sword with a singing metallic chord, and made to stride across the room.

Flora peered over Alistair's shoulder, then beamed and reached out to tap her fingers against the glass in response.

"It's Zevran," she said, as the king let out a muted sigh of relief. "He's back! What does he have against _doors?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So of course seafood is a big no-no for women who are up the duff! To Flora's horror, her body has developed a gag reflex for oysters, lol. She's actually genuinely enraged by this, since oysters were a Herring staple!


	25. An Assassin Within Revanloch

Alistair leaned forward to unfasten the rusting window catch, standing back as the frame swung inwards with a creak. The elf, lithe as a cat, slithered his way onto the bench, his face hidden by a low hood. The formfitting leathers he wore gleamed oddly in the candlelight, leaving dark smears wherever they touched the wood.

"Greetings, _mis amores," _he purred, weariness running through the words. "I am very glad to see you both. And I am seeing quite a _lot _of you, _mi florita."_

The elf drew back his hood, winking leisurely at Flora in a way that did not quite hide the deep lines of tiredness scored beneath his eyes.

Flora absent-mindedly tightened the laces of her tunic, brow creasing as she stared at her Crow companion more closely. Reaching out, she pressed a finger to the oily patch on the elf's leathers; when she withdrew it, the tip came away a brownish-red.

Alistair came to the same realisation moments later, inhaling sharply in dismay.

"Zev," he breathed, alarmed. "Are you _injured?"_

The elf shook his head, fatigue ingrained deep in the angular crevasses of his face. His olive skin appeared a shade paler than usual, the tattooed marks standing out as though freshly inked.

"No, _mi rey. _It is not my blood."

Alistair barked for a servant; one came scuttling into the room with head bowed. The king proceeded to deliver a set of terse instructions: for a bath to be brought up and the lay sister Leliana to be located.

Meanwhile Flora was gazing anxiously at the elf, her eyes dropping to the blades at his hips. They were still caked in dried blood, and it was this that alarmed her more than anything, since the Crow took meticulous pride in the care of his weapons.

"Zev," she whispered, alarmed. "Wha- "

"You are looking radiant, _mi sirenita," _he interjected, skilfully avoiding her concern. "Fecundity suits you."

Flora frowned at him, unswayed by his diversionary tactics. The elf continued, determinedly.

"Anyway, I have _news_ of your assassin. I shall update you both on the situation; appraise you of what I have learnt- "

"Not before you bathe, and sit down properly," Flora interrupted, with Herring bluntness. "And have something to _eat."_

A muscle in Alistair's jaw flickered – he was keen for any news on the one who had attempted to kill his beloved and best friend – but acquiesced to Flora's solemn declaration.

Zevran eyed her for a moment, and then sighed, leaning his white-blond head back against the glass. Flora surreptitiously looked him up and down, noting a bloodied smear of crimson on the pointed length of his ear. Licking her thumb, she reached out, and wiped it away.

It was a kind and oddly maternal gesture; the elf exhaled slightly unsteadily, anchoring his fingers in the folds of his leathers to stop himself from touching her.

"You must be hungry if you've been travelling," Flora said, glancing around. "Hm, what would you like?"

Unfortunately, the only food present was that which satisfied her own strange cravings – bundles of tree bark, a basket of earth-covered turnips and a pot of mint sauce.

"I'll have some fare brought up," Alistair called from across the room, shoving the poker into the hearth to perk up the flames. "I can hear your stomach rumbling from over here."

Flora knelt up and refastened the window, pulling the curtains closed once again. When she turned around, the elf had his eyes closed; in his stillness, the violet shadows etched around the sockets stood out all the more starkly.

Unsure whether or not he was dozing, Flora reached out and touched her finger to his cheek, tracing the faded pattern tattooed against the rich, stewed-tea skin.

Zevran opened a dark, inscrutable eye and watched her, a myriad of indescribable emotions swirling in the depths of his pupil.

"You look tired, _carina," _he murmured, seeing the remnants of similar shadows beneath Flora's own eyes. "Is it the babe keeping you awake, or has our king been exercising his _royal prerogative _at every available opportunity?"

Flora had no idea what a _prerogative_ was, and so merely smiled enigmatically in response.

The elf realised that she had no idea what he was asking, and let out a weary chuckle. Reaching out, he mirrored her gesture; letting his thumb trace the high angle of her cheekbone.

"Congratulations on your retirement, Warden-Commander. I heard about the visit from the Orlesians. Did they smell of sugared violets and political intrigue?"

Flora pulled a little face at him, slumping down against the wall and resting an absent-minded hand on her belly.

"I think they tried to take over the Fereldan Wardens," she replied, somewhat uncertainly. "But Loghain Mac Tir is in charge now, along with one of their lieutenants."

"They'll watch each other like hawks," called Alistair from across the room, batting out a spark that had landed on his knee. "Loghain won't have time to get up to anything devious; he'll be too busy making sure there's no foul play from the Orlesian woman."

Despite his weariness, Zevran managed to summon a wry chuckle, dark eyes flashing.

"You're making Loghain work with an Orlesian? How deliciously _twisted _of you, Alistair. Perhaps they'll hate each other so much that they'll fall into bed."

"Maker's Breath!"

"Aaah!"

Neither Flora nor Alistair were much grateful for this mental image being inserted into their heads.

Soon afterwards the bath arrived, alongside a fleet-footed Leliana. The bard elbowed her way impatiently past the servants, going to greet Zevran with a smile.

"_Mon chèr,_" she murmured, kissing the elf's tattooed cheek as he winked at her. "You must tell me the results of your investigations later."

He inclined his head, tucking away a strand of platinum hair that had escaped its tight braid.

Alistair directed the bath to be placed beside the hearth, as Flora went to intercept a servant carrying a tray.

"Thank you," she said, casting an appraising eye over the contents. There was a pot of freshly brewed tea, and an odourless vegetable stew accompanied by several slices of thick, grainy bread.

Zevran lifted a spoonful of stew to his mouth, just about managing to disguise the faint curl of his lip that accompanied any Fereldan cuisine.

"Tell me, _nena. _Has this country ever heard of using _spices _to flavour its food?" he begged after a moment, wide eyed. "If not, I know several Antivan merchant princes who are always looking to expand their trade networks."

Flora smiled at him, patting her stomach as the little creature nudged against her kidneys.

The servants soon departed, leaving the bath steaming before the fire. Zevran – like Flora – had never been self-conscious about disrobing before others. Discarding his bloodied leathers and similarly-coated blades, he strode across the room, tan and feline.

Alistair coughed, hastily directing his attention to the hearth. Leliana, who appreciated both aesthetically-pleasing male and female forms in equal measure, eyed the elf surreptitiously. Flora, who had a healer's ambivalence to the naked body, dutifully followed in the elf's wake with the congealing, tasteless stew.

"_Ayuadame, _its following me," breathed the elf, glimpsing the hated bowl from the corner of his eye. "The stuff of nightmares. I will stick to the marginally less offensive bread, I think, _mi florita."_

Flora nodded, perching carefully on the stool beside the bath as the elf lowered himself into the water.

"Alistair," murmured Leliana, drifting across the room like some ethereal spirit in her flimsy Chantry robes. "I have also been making some enquiries about our three remaining Howes."

Alistair's head snapped up from the hearth, his stare tautening as it met the duck-egg blue gaze of the bard. Reaching out, he took Leliana's arm and drew her to one side; lowering his voice as he glanced back at his seated mistress.

"Tell me, Lel."

Meanwhile, Flora rested her arm on the side of the bathtub and prodded at the floating foam with wary suspicion. Fortunately, there was no offensive flowery aroma rising from the water – Revanloch soap was made from plain, unscented animal fat.

Zevran exhaled unsteadily, closing his eyes and gripping the edge of the bathtub. Flora eyed his slender fingers, the nails of which were caked with something dark and sticky. Her gaze travelled over his faintly discoloured knuckles, which appeared to have recently made contact with something organic and yielding.

The elf watched her from beneath pale, half-lowered eyelashes, hair plastered to his shoulders.

"Do not judge them too harshly, _mi sirenita,__" _he murmured wryly, watching the soapy residue congeal atop the tepid water. "They are not the large, honest hands of your former _brother-warden, _strong and sword-calloused. They are the hands of a killer."

"I like your hands," Flora retorted, gazing enviously at the elf's graceful fingers. "They're very elegant."

"And they have done many gruesome things, _carina," _the elf said, watching the water roll down his forearm. "Things which would give you nightmares, if you were still capable of having them."

Flora held up her own smaller, far less elegant hand, with the fingernails bitten and the strange, moon-colour marking seared across the palm.

"Well, I once broke a man's head into pieces with this hand," she replied, recalling a rain-soaked balcony and the flash of sheer terror in Rendon Howe's eyes as he realised that Flora was _not _Tranquil after all. "And I still like it well enough."

Zevran smiled back at Flora, the bone-white of his teeth in gleaming contrast to the rich lustre of his tattooed skin. He reached out with wet fingers and gripped her wrist, bringing her hand close to his face and eyeing it, solemnly.

"This is the hand of the _Hero of Ferelden. _The hand which slew the Archdemon and ended the Blight. I'm surprised the Landsmeet haven't wanted to preserve it."

Flora looked alarmed. "Cut it off?!"

"_Cara, _no! I mean immortalising your fingerprints in plaster."

"Oh."

* * *

Later, after the elf had deliberately lingered over dressing to make Knight-Captain Gannorn distinctly uncomfortable; king, Cousland, bard and assassin sat down together as Zevran prepared to share his findings.

Flora leaned back against the cushions, incongruously hoping that she could push right through them and disappear into the depths of the bed. She had quite happily been in denial for the past fortnight – Howes, assassins and poisoned blades had been lodged firmly in the back of her mind – and was not looking forward to Zevran's revelations.

Alistair, conversely, was sitting bolt upright. One hand was resting protectively on Flora's bare calf, palm sliding up and down the skin. The fingers of his other hand lingered near the hilt of his nearby sword; as though ready to take it up immediately against any offending parties.

"So I have questioned Delilah Howe," Zevran began, wet hair hanging dark and wet around his bare shoulders as he paced about the bed. "She has married a commoner, and no longer considers herself a Howe. I have it confirmed by three sources that Rendon Howe disowned her six months ago, due to her _lowly_ choice in partners. She is with child – much further along than you, _carina- _"

"Hence the marriage," whispered Leliana, surreptitiously.

" – and when I questioned her, there was no lie in her face. She is fully cognisant of what an animal her father was; of his betrayal at Highever, the kidnap of Florence Cousland and subsequent plan to illegally Tranquilise her."

Flora cringed, as she always did whenever the hated man was mentioned. Alistair felt her flinch as though struck, and a quick flash of Theirin anger passed across his face like an ill wind. Muttering a curse under his breath, he reached out and drew her beneath his arm.

"The elder brother is still in the Marches," continued the elf, quietly. "And although it would not be _impossible_ for him to orchestrate some scheme from there, my little birds suggest otherwise. No, it is the younger brother, _Thomas, _whom I believe is behind this plot."

"Thomas," Flora said in disbelief, remembering the sallow-faced youth who had sat opposite her at Howe's dinner table. "I said sorry to him for killing his father. He said that he didn't even _like _him!"

"Where is he?" the king demanded in sudden rage, releasing his mistress and reaching for his sword. "I swear to the Maker, I'll go there tonight, I'll get some men- "

"Hold, Alistair," Zevran replied, reaching to place slender fingers on the fuming man's elbow. "I have not finished. I have made enquiries amongst the various assassin guilds – the Denerim Avengers, the Beards, the Loyalists, amongst others – and nobody knows of a contract on _mi florita's_ life. Indeed, they were near-incredulous at the prospect. Unsurprisingly, nobody wants to go after the _Hero of Ferelden."_

Alistair, whose eyebrows had risen into his coppery hairline at the sheer number of assassin guilds apparently operating within Ferelden, ground his teeth.

"So, what are you saying?" he asked, bluntly.

Zevran turned to Flora, who was anxiously rubbing the heel of her hand across her stomach.

"_Nena, _I believe that it was not an assassin who made the clumsy attempt on your life in the Chantry," he said, quietly. "I believe it was Thomas Howe _himself._ Furthermore, I believe that he has located himself nearby."

"How do you know that?" demanded Leliana, her eyes at once both shrewd and surprised.

Zevran slipped a hand into the pocket of his trousers, withdrawing a small vial filled with a blackish-green ichor.

"I distilled the poison used onto the assassin's blade into its various essences," he murmured. "The core component was the crimson lily-wort, a flower only found along this particular stretch of coastline. I believe that Thomas Howe is nearby, possibly _very _nearby."

"Within Denerim?" Leliana asked, softly. "Hidden in one of the caves along the coastline?"

"Or even closer still," replied Zevran in low tones, the surface humour that usually danced across his words entirely absent. "Perhaps within the monastery itself."

There was a silence, during which Alistair gaped in horror; loosing his grip on the sword hilt and tucking his lover beneath his arm once more. Flora swallowed, feeling the little creature nudge against the base of her spine.

"There are three hundred initiates here," murmured Leliana, glancing around as though her pale blue gaze could penetrate Revanloch's stone walls. "How old is Thomas Howe, two decades? He could easily blend in amongst them."

"I'll have the recruits numbered and interviewed tomorrow," Knight-Captain Gannorn interrupted from beside the door. "If this Howe is hiding within Revanloch, we will find him."

Alistair was already on his feet, sword at his side, looking ready to lead an immediate charge into the initiate dormitories. Leliana reached up to put placating fingers on his elbow, shaking her head.

"Alistair, brute force is not the way to bring this vile creature to the light," she breathed, as the king put a despairing hand to his head. "We must proceed carefully, or else we will drive the Howe back underground. We know that he can be stealthy – after all, he slipped from Eamon's estate without notice."

Alistair groaned, turning to Zevran with a raw plea in his eyes.

"Zev- "

"Give me a day," replied the elf, quietly. "_One_ more. I believe I am close."

Alistair stared down at the former Crow, who raised cunning dark eyes to meet his own.

"But, if he _is _here, Lo is in danger," he said, a clear note of despair ringing through his words. "If anything happens to her- "

"I will not allow it," said Zevran throatily, a harsh, ragged edge to his reply. "You _know_ I would not permit a hair on her head to be harmed. Or for any misfortune to come to your little babe. The thought is… _anatema."_

Alistair glanced once towards the door, paused, then nodded wordlessly. Letting the sword drop to the floorboards with a clatter, he strode to the sideboard and poured himself a flagon of ale with a trembling hand.

Flora, her own alarm sufficiently assuaged by Zevran's reassurance, shifted position amidst the furs until she could put her arm about his neck. The elf reached up to touch her fingers as she pressed her lips affectionately against his cheek; his eyes half-closing.

Alistair threw back the flagon in a single, quick gulp, barely noticing its stale tepidness.

"Right," he said, low and determined as he turned back towards them. "What do you need me to do?"

"Return to the city tonight, as normal," replied Zevran, steadily. "Host tomorrow's meeting with the Fereldan merchants, as planned. Basically, do not act as though you are suspicious. If our treacherous _halla_ catches the scent of a wolf, then it will flee."

"Does that make you the wolf?" Flora asked, resting her chin on his shoulder.

"_Sí," _breathed the elf, and there was a dark menace in his smile. "My claws have been sharpened, and my belly hungers for foul traitor-meat."

"Oh! Are you going to _eat_ him?"

"_Qué?!"_

  
  
Chapter 26: To Be A Current, Not A Rockpool  
End Notes:

OOC Author Note: I actually love this one – I think it's really important for Flo's character development. And of course, I love Zev as a character and I think he's so much more complex than just a flirtatious rogue! I've only touched on the complexity in my account, but I wanted to at least allude to it.

  
  


Once Alistair had departed, with even greater reluctance than usual, the other occupants of Revanloch settled down for the night. A lone priestess tended the eternal flame in the Chantry, while the guards made silent patrol along the monastery's crumbling ramparts. A watchful moon filtered through the clouds, penetrating the broken roof tiles with rays of searching light; as though attempting to illuminate any possible Howe intruder lurking within.

Up in the guest chambers, Bann Teagan, who had had a long day arguing with the stonemasons about the cost of rebuilding Denerim's broken defences, was snoring away on the bedroll. Leliana had just finished applying her facial unguents, and was leaning forward; eyes closed in pleasure as Flora knelt at her back, kneading her fingertips into the bard's skull.

"_Ma petite_," Leliana murmured, exhaling as the tension across her temples began to dissipate. "Just so you are aware. There may be some time tomorrow when I, and your usual Templar guards, will not be with you."

Flora blinked, sliding her fingers in slow circles behind Leliana's ears. The bard's strawberry blonde locks felt conditioned and silken, much – Flora reflected – like the bard herself.

"Oh!"

"If that is the case, Bann Teagan will be with you, as will Lieutenant Rutherford."

"Alright," said Flora, bemused. "Why?"

The bard made no reply, merely let out a little sigh and rolled her shoulders. Flora stuck an immature tongue out at the back of Leliana's skull. The next moment, she felt bad and pressed her cheek affectionately against her companion's hair.

"Well, I'm sure you have a good reason for it," Flora conceded amiably, leaning back into the cushions and yawning. "Watch out for Thomas Howe. He might jump out at you from behind the Grand Cleric's giant hat!"

Zevran, who had just been admiring his own taut, biscuit-brown torso in the mirror, turned around and flashed them a brilliant smile.

"Bedtime, with my two beautiful _pelirrojas_!"

Skipping across the floorboards, the elf made to gleefully clamber into bed beside Flora; Leliana let out a warning snarl.

"On my other side, _dépraver_!"

Zevran pouted, but obediently rolled across to relocate himself on the far side of the bed. Leliana lowered her lacy eye mask just enough to shoot him a warning glower.

"Envision me as the impenetrable wall of Minrathous," she said sternly into the darkness. "None shall pass."

Zevran blew a plaintive kiss in Flora's direction, over Leliana's muscled, silk-clad stomach.

"Alas, we must postpone our passion once again, _carina_."

"Oh, well. Have some interesting dreams," Flora replied, smiling sleepily back at him. "Tell me about them in the morning."

* * *

An owl hooted from the depths of some vaulted crevasse, a light night-time drizzle pattered against Revanloch's roof tiles. The city of Denerim, sprawled on the estuary two miles to the north, was lost in a caldera of smoke and shadow; its braziers smouldering in vain defiance of the sodden darkness.

Alistair, tossing and turning within the Royal bedchamber, stretched out an unconscious hand into the hollow of the mattress. Flora's old fishing jersey, its fraying navy wool unravelling in a half-dozen places, lay on the pillow beside him.

His sleeping mind was crowded with images of faceless Howe descendants, each one brandishing a fragment of their father's broken skull. He saw his best friend, vulnerable and defenceless, startled fingers flying to her throat as a dozen crimson birds flew from her mouth.

The king awoke in a cold sweat, shouting out in alarm. Moments later, several guardsmen burst through the doors with pikes raised, torchlight sweeping the chamber.

After reassuring the guards that all was well, Alistair leaned back against the cushions, trying to calm his racing heart. He reached for Flora's fishing jumper and held it against his chest, finding some small measure of comfort in the salt-roughened wool.

Meanwhile, within the decrepit towers of Revanloch monastery, Flora herself was having a restless night. The little creature was testing the boundaries of its confined quarters, nudging irritably against her kidneys and spine. She had tried sleeping propped up against the cushions, curled on her side, and eventually tried rubbing her hand over her belly in an attempt to soothe it.

_I shouldn't call you little creature_, Flora thought to herself, pressing the heel of her palm against her swollen stomach. _Everyone keeps saying how big you are._

_Please don't get too big. I'm already not sure how you're going to… fit._

_I mean, I know how it happens. I'm a healer. I just can't see it happening in this instance. Especially if you've got three more months of growing to do._

The rubbing motion seemed to settle the not-so-little creature, and Flora managed to glean an hour or so more sleep. When she woke next, it was to the sound of the guard changing shift on the midnight bell.

Yawning, she was about to roll over and attempt to reclaim sleep, when the balance of light inside the room shifted; shadow and moonbeam briefly merging as a figure moved before the window.

In mild alarm, Flora sat up and rubbed her eyes, squinting towards the opened curtains. A moment later, she recognised Zevran's form silhouetted before the leaded glass. The elf was leaning back against the stone frame, naked from the waist up, his hair braided neatly behind his head.

Yet it was his expression that caught Flora's attention; the tan features uncharacteristically austere, the gaze clouded and distant. There was none of the usual humour in the laughing mouth, which was pulled taut.

Flora shoved the blankets back with a foot, taking care not to tread on Bann Teagan as she clambered inelegantly upright.

Immediately, Chanter Devotia let out a little cough of warning from where she was stationed beside the door, her violet eyes narrowing through the shadows. The Chanter clearly believed that Flora was ready to embark on another of her nocturnal wanderings, and relaxed a fraction when the Cousland padded towards the window instead.

Zevran heard Flora's approach, and turned to face her, his angular features immediately assembling themselves into a charismatic smile of greeting.

"_Carina_," he murmured, teeth very white against the gloom. "Why are we up at this hour?"

Flora looked at him dubiously, the gold mote embedded within her iris gleaming with reflected moonlight. The elf continued in a similar charming vein, his smile fixed and brilliant.

"Doesn't this lighting suit me, hm? I look almost Dalish. I heard the forest elves caper and cavort about beneath the full moon – or perhaps that is the Witches of the Wild, I know not."

He held out a sinewy arm, the lean muscle harbouring the coiled strength of a wildcat. The tattooed markings extended down his shoulder-blades and wound to his elbows, the ink faded from longevity.

"Zevran, I thought you were Antivan," Flora whispered back, solemnly. "Not Orlesian."

Zevran managed to maintain his charming grin while simultaneously twitching his brows together in confusion. Flora propped herself up against the opposite window frame and continued to stare at him, unblinking.

"I am bemused, _nena_," the elf said at last, quizzical and smiling. "What do you mean, Orlesian? Surely my fashion sense is not that bad?"

Flora made a little gesture, passing her fingers in front of her face with a smile and a frown in quick succession.

"The mask," she explained, pale eyes unfathomable as the Waking Sea. "You're wearing it now. You don't need to, not in front of me."

Zevran stared at her for a long moment, the smile gradually turning rictus.

Subtle as a sea change before a storm, the veil of outer charm slipped away. The elf seemed to age several years before her, his mouth pulling grim and humourless; old regrets shadowing the rich depths of his irises.

Flora did not say anything, but looked at him silently; for once, she was not distracted by the sight of the nearby ocean. The elf was never shy about shedding clothes in daylight – he revelled in his own fine-hewn physicality – but the daylight warmed the rich skin sufficient to hide what lay beneath its surface.

Conversely, the silvered hue of moonlight illuminated a dozen old wounds, the scar tissue pale and discoloured. Some appeared to be the careless remnants of battle – from the rare occasion an opponent had managed to land a lucky blow – but others were of far more insidious more nature. These earliest ones spoke of systematic and deliberate infliction; of chains, and manacles, and a punishing lash.

Flora looked at them, recalling the brief fragments that the elf had shared with them about his childhood with the Crows.

_They were… not kind to my fellow bond-slaves and I. Most of us did not survive training._

_But, enough of that! Where to now, hm? My, the colouring of sunset suits you, mi sirenita._

"I think you are lucky,_ mi florita_, not to dream any longer," murmured the elf at last, pensively. "I wish I was afforded the same luxury."

Flora leaned her head against the window frame, wistful and contemplative.

"I think I would have had a lot of nightmares," she agreed, her pale eyes seeking out his. "Is that why you're awake? A nightmare?"

Zevran almost smiled and spun her a pretty lie, then remembered that Flora had politely and insistently requested the removal of his mask.

"_Sí_," he replied instead, soft and without pretence.

"Si," repeated Flora, in her flat, northern augmentation. "SI."

"No: _sí_, like this. Sí. _Sííí_."

"Si," she said obediently, then smiled at him. "Is that better?"

Zevran flashed her a quick, ambiguous grin; his gaze sliding sideways towards where the moon left dappled patches on the vast, dark swathe of ocean.

"What was your nightmare about?" Flora asked after a moment, fiddling with the fraying sleeve of her Theirin-crested pyjamas.

For a moment, Zevran stared at the window as though the reflections of his reproachful dead were gazing back at him through the leaded glass. The elf flinched fractionally, the movement so infinitesimal that Flora almost missed it.

"Tell me, _bella_," he said, quietly. "Do you think that your Herring past will ever leave you? Or does the saltwater run so deep in your veins that it is impossible to drain?"

Flora made a vain attempt to decipher the elf's euphemism, her brow furrowing. Eventually, she gave up and asked him to clarify.

"What do you mean?"

The elf gave no reply for a moment, turning his eyes away from the sad imagined faces of betrayed friends. When he spoke, the words emerged low and rueful.

"I do not think that I will ever leave my mistakes behind, _mi florita_. The shadow of the crow's wing will fall across my path for the rest of my life."

Flora pressed her finger against a warped mark in the glass, thoughtfully. The elf continued in a quiet, dry voice; grateful that she had not attempted to interrupt him with platitudes.

"You said in the Brecilian Forest: Zevran, you are free. But I am a prisoner of my own past, _carina._ I do not wish to be a Crow, but if I am not a Crow, I… I do not know what I am."

Flora held her breath as her friend continued, wondering what arcane alignment of stars had occurred to prompt this uncharacteristic confession. Zevran had rarely mentioned his youth with the Crows on their travels; clearly, it was a rite of passage he chose not to dwell on.

The elf licked his dry lips, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against the cool, uneven glass.

"During the Blight, I had a purpose – to assist you and Alistair in defeating the Darkspawn. What now is the purpose of Zevran? I am masterless, guildless, aimless."

He opened his eyes, to see Flora proffering a tankard of weak ale, having spotted it abandoned half-drunk on the sideboard.

In defiance of his usual caution when ingesting strange fluids, Zevran drank the liquor in three long gulps, grateful for its tepid refreshment. Flora watched the muscles in the elf's tan throat contract as he swallowed, thinking on how to best phrase her thoughts.

"When my spirits left me, I didn't know what to do," she said at last, careful and solemn. "They had been with me for as long as I could remember, longer than any real person. I thought they were my parents when I was younger, because the other children in Herring teased me about not looking like my dad."

Flora swallowed, feeling the perennial sadness rise once more to the forefront of her mind.

"When they left – were destroyed? – I felt useless. I felt like a crab in a rock pool; trapped in my own body, weak and… and pointless."

"_Nena_," said Zevran, and then cut himself off as she continued; her voice small.

"And I still feel a bit useless, even now. But…"

"But?"

"But," Flora whispered, determinedly. "I'm sure I'll find some new purpose, now that there's no Blight. Even though I can't heal anymore, and my spirits are gone… I can do something else. I can move on from them, from my old life. I'm sure I can. I have to, or I'll never… I'll never grow up."

Zevran looked at her, his dark pupils thoughtful and unreadable. She was looking out at the ocean, fingertips pressed against the glass, more dark red hair hanging free from her braid than was contained within it. The pyjama shirt – clearly one of Alistair's, from its size – drooped just enough at the neck to show the highest arc of the white scar between her shoulder-blades; the Chantry-like sunburst that had resulted from the Archdemon's soul attempting to take root.

_"Mi florita_," he murmured eventually, and then trailed off; unsure what to say.

Flora smiled sideways at him, quick and fleeting as a fish darting through a patch of sunlight-dappled water.

"And if I can move forward, you can, too. We'll be currents together," she said, determinedly. "Currents, not crabs stuck in rock-pools."

Zevran opened his mouth to speak his heart plainly, and then arrested himself at the last minute; reaching out to finger a thick rope of loose hair.

"Currents, not rock pools," he repeated instead, feeling his gut constrict. "Constantly moving, not stagnating."

"I know it's going to take a while," Flora added, pulling a rueful face. "I saw a skull on a tapestry the other day – you know, the battlefield scene in the Chantry corridor? - and it reminded me of my Golden Lady. I spent the whole afternoon as an… an _emotional shipwreck_."

She grimaced, nudging her fingertip into a pockmarked section of the window pane. There was silence for a few heartbeats; an owl called out for its mate from somewhere beyond the glass.

"Why are you so kind, _carina_?" the elf asked eventually, watching Flora trace her mispelled name in the condensation.

"Because," she replied, soft and without hesitation. "People have been unkind to me."

Zevran inhaled suddenly, turning away from her and staring very hard up at the beams that ran horizontally across the ceiling. After a moment, Flora leaned forward and pressed her lips against his cheek, firm and affectionate.

"Try and get some sleep," she told him kindly, clambering off the window bench. "You and Leliana have some big plans tomorrow, apparently, which neither of you will tell me about!"

The elf inclined his head, feline gaze tracing her steps across the room.

"Remember what our bard said," he murmured, the words carrying easily through the still, damp air. "If we are not with you tomorrow, stay with the bann."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Ooohhh, so the treacherous Howe is within Revanloch! Now we'll just have to draw him out of hiding….. Nathaniel Howe is going to make an appearance later on; I can just do more headcanon stuff with Thomas, since there's no lore on him. At least, not that I can find, anyway!
> 
> Hurray, Zevran is back! He's one of my favourite characters, and I really adore the closeness between him and Flo. Despite his flirting, he's starting to see her as more of a little sister. I do feel sorry for him – I bet Ferelden cuisine is super bland, if it is meant to be based off Medieval England, lol.


	26. A Conversation With Cullen

When Flora awoke the next morning, she was alone amidst the rumpled blankets of the bed. Bann Teagan was dictating quietly to a clerk clad in Redcliffe colours at the door; while a familiar Templar with curly blond hair stood stiffly beside the hearth. Knight-Captain Gannorn and Chanter Devotia were nowhere to be seen.

Flora rubbed her eyes with her thumbs, yawning. The sun was spilling through the leaded window, illuminating the dusty floorboards with a languid, buttery light. The Herring part of her soul was immediately ashamed at sleeping in so late; it must have been at least _mid-morning_.

"Sorry, poppet." Teagan turned away from the clerk, apologetic and freshly-shaven. "Did I wake you?"

"No," Flora replied, her curious gaze sliding sideways. "Morning, Lieutenant Rutherford."

The lieutenant swallowed and began a reply that was an octave higher than normal; before clearing his throat and making a second attempt.

"Good morning, my lady."

But Flora was so distracted by the terrible realisation that she had _missed breakfast, _that she did not reprimand Cullen for his use of her honorific title. Immediately anxious, she put a hand to her stomach, feeling the little creature nudge against her palm.

"Has everyone broken their fast already?" she breathed, dismayed. "I need to go to the kitchens."

The bann stepped to one side, revealing a tray of freshly cut fruit and seeded rolls resting on a low stool.

"Here," he said, hastily. "Anything else you want, just let one of the servants know. Lay-Sister Leliana has requested that you… not leave the guest quarters today."

Flora, already halfway across the room, paused with one hand stretched towards the tray. She blinked, pale eyes moving from Teagan, to Cullen, then back to the bann.

"I can't leave the rooms?" she asked, nonplussed. "Why? What's going on?"

The younger Guerrin shot a quick side-look at the lieutenant; Flora spotted the fleeting exchange of glances, and narrowed her own stare.

"_Why_ can't I leave?" she repeated, an unconscious note of Cousland imperiousness creeping into the query.

Teagan let out a sigh, taking a step towards her.

"Leliana and your Crow are now convinced that Thomas Howe may be hiding within Revanloch," he said, watching Flora's eyes widen in alarm. "It's almost a certainty, in fact."

"So he _is _here?" she breathed, disbelieving. _"In the same building?"_

Indeed, it appeared that Revanloch's crumbling chambers and labyrinthine passages had harboured a more insidious presence than mildew or mice.

"I… I- "

Seeing Flora mouth wordlessly as she paled, the freckles standing out like flecks of tan ink against her nose, Teagan hastened to reassure her.

"Child, no harm will come to you," he hastened to reassure her. "I swear by the Maker. Don't be frightened- "

"I'm going to knock his teeth out!" finished Flora, the words emerging as an enraged hiss. "He's _here?! _Let me out, I'm going to find him, I'm going to _find _him and impale his manhood on a fishhook; which I will then _use as bait! _If it's anything like his father's, it'll be miniscule- "

Cullen, who had witnessed Flora's similarly violent outburst in the Chantry after the initial assassination attempt, was not taken aback. He stepped across to bodily block the doorway as Teagan gaped, momentarily too surprised to intercept Flora as she lunged forwards.

"I wish I'd never said sorry for killing his dad now," Flora fumed, sidestepping like a crab in an attempt to dodge the stoic-faced young Templar. "I should've butted out his teeth with my head. I'm going to do it now, once you _move out of my way!"_

"Flora, _no."_

The combination of her name, and the authority in the officer's voice, caused Flora to come to an abrupt halt. For a moment, she was no longer _lady Cousland_ or _king's mistress__; _but merely an apprentice being reprimanded by a Templar. Despite no longer possessing magic, deference to the Chantry's soldiers was still ingrained within Flora's psyche.

"It's important that you stay here," Cullen repeated, a fraction less sternly. "The bard Leliana requested it."

Inwardly, the young officer was quailing at his own audacity – after all, this was the _Hero of Ferelden _whom he had just told off. But Flora had visibly given up; her head hanging in defeat. She had remembered her promise to be _cautious, _and knew that that charging down Revanloch's damp corridors (like an enraged bull) in pursuit of assassins was perhaps not the most sensible course of action.

_You're alone now. There's no one to protect you any more. No shield but your own skin._

Frustrated at her own vulnerability, the sulking Flora went to sit on the bed with shoulders slumped.

* * *

The next few hours passed with excruciating slowness. The quiet noises of Revanloch at day – muffled footsteps, hushed conversations, the distant clash of training swords from the inner courtyard – seemed to taunt Flora; now that she was confined to within four walls. The thought that Zevran and Leliana might be engaged in some potentially dangerous activity – involving a Howe, no less – while she was trapped useless inside the room, proved a source of great frustration.

Teagan dragged the writing desk over to the window, where there was the best light, and busied himself with correspondence. The young Templar lieutenant stood beside the door, one hand on his blade in readiness, chin raised.

Flora had taken her cards of Theodesian leaders to the bed, but she had memorised every angle of their inked faces already. Gazing across the room, her pale irises settled on the young Templar, whom she had first come into contact with during her earliest years at the Circle.

"Lieutenant Rutherford," Flora said eventually, her words breaking the silence.

The officer, who had been making a conscious effort not to look at Flora as she sprawled back against the cushions, now had little excuse. Hoping that his cheeks were not deepening their colour, Cullen returned her stare.

"Yes, my lady?"

Flora let the card featuring Empress Celene slip from her lap, pressing her fingertips together thoughtfully.

"We've known each other for a long time," she said, thoughtfully. "And you probably know a lot about me, after… after everything."

"Well, all of Ferelden knows about you now, I would assume," Cullen replied, with a wry half-nod of acknowledgement. "If not Thedas."

"I imagine that Herring is going to become a rather popular destination for travellers in the future," Teagan added from beside the window. "People will be curious to see where the Hero of Ferelden grew up."

Flora was silent for a moment, knowing that such an influx of strangers into the insular community of Herring would cause no small amount of consternation. Deciding that she could do nothing about this grim prospect, she pressed onwards.

"But I don't know a thing about _you."_

"What would you wish to know, my lady?"

Flora thought hard for a moment, frowning. She had incorrectly predicted that the shy young man would politely deflect any personal enquiries, and thus had not prepared any questions.

"I feel as though you're from a small village, like me," she said at last, carefully. "Is that right?"

"I was raised in a village by the name of Honnleath," the Templar said, with a slight inclination of the head. "There weren't many of us there. Our Chantry was only a little larger than these chambers."

"Where is Honnleath?" Flora asked, unfamiliar with the name.

The junior officer paused, before continuing in a carefully measured voice.

"It… it _was_ in southern Ferelden."

The use of the past tense did not escape Flora, who understood immediately that Cullen's hometown had met the same fate as poor, lost Lothering.

"Oh," she breathed, immediately regretting having asked. "I'm sorry."

"My family fled when the Darkspawn came," Cullen continued, steadily. "To South Reach."

Flora grimaced once more at the mention of Arl Bryland's doomed seat. She dared not ask if his relatives had survived the horde's assault; yet the young captain continued to speak without prompting.

"My sisters and brother made it to Denerim, thank Andraste. Our parents were delivered to the Maker's side."

Cullen spoke with the resigned tone of a man who had prematurely forced himself to come to terms with such a tragedy. Flora, who had been devastated by the departure of her spirits, was humbled by the man's Herring-like stoicism in the face of an even greater loss.

Letting the rest of the cards fall from her lap, she clambered out of bed and crossed the chamber, coming to a halt before the Templar. Not wanting to make Cullen uncomfortable, she made no attempt to embrace him; but reached out and took his gloved hand, clasping it between both of her palms.

"I'm sorry," she said solemnly, meaning it. "I'll never forget the villages and towns that the Darkspawn stole from us. Their names have been engraved on my bones."

It was an odd expression of sympathy – a typically fatalistic northerner's saying - but the sincerity of the words was clear. Cullen glanced down at her, his bruised, bronze gaze meeting her steady silvered one.

"Thank you."

Flora nodded, letting his hand go after a final tight squeeze.

"I should have known you were a man who had sisters," she said, angling the conversation gently away from death. "You were always kind to me in the Circle. Are they younger or older?"

"Mia is the oldest," Cullen replied, some of the rigidity loosing in his face as he uttered his sister's name. "Rosie is only sixteen summers old."

"Sixteen," repeated Flora, trying not to grimace as she envisioned the horrors that the girl must have experienced over the past year. "Are they still in Denerim?"

"Yes, I- I believe so."

"You don't know?"

The Templar coughed, eyes darting over her shoulder towards the window.

"The Chantry discourages contact with our families," he muttered, stiffly. "They suggest we do not even think on them. They're seen as a distraction."

"Oh."

Flora, who could not envision her family being anything other than an integral part of her life, glanced down. Then the Templar coughed, a slight awkwardness creeping into his tone.

"I was never very good at that part," Cullen said, frankly. "The forgetting of the family. It's my second greatest failing as a Templar."

"What's the first?" Flora asked, curious.

There was a brief pause, while the officer considered how best to phrase his answer. When they emerged, the words were carefully selected.

"Not following protocol when I found out that you were violating curfew. You should have been disciplined for climbing up onto the roof."

Flora peered up at him through her eyelashes, the corners of her mouth tightening in disapproval.

"It's not a failing to be kind," she told him, sternly. Cullen's eyes slid evasively from her own, darting once more towards the window.

With that said, Flora went to retrieve _S__ea Creatures of Tevinter Legend, _taking the book over to the window bench to glean some light from the watery sun. The Templar watched her as she went; the latent meaning of his words writ plain across his clean-shaven face.

_My greatest failing as a Templar was how I felt about you. I harboured inappropriate desires, in violation of my sacred oath to the Chantry. I almost acted on them._

Teagan, who recognised that particular brand of longing only too well, rose from the writing desk in a pretence to fetch some ale. As he passed the young officer, he lowered his voice and directed his words like a spear-thrust into the man's ear.

"Mind yourself, Templar. The girl is meant for the king_."_

_And if I can keep my feelings submerged, so can you._

"I know, my lord. I am… I've requested a transfer to Kirkwall, in the Marches," Cullen replied, not quite able to look the bann in the eye. "They're telling me it'll be a promotion."

"Hm," said Teagan shrewdly, watching the young man's gaze edge back over the room in small increments, until it was settled once more on Flora. She was puzzling over some inscrutable word from _Sea Creatures of Tevinter Legend, _holding the book an inch before her face and squinting at it in bemusement.

"Well, I think that would be a good idea, lieutenant. Need some help, petal?"

This last part was directed to Flora, who was now holding the book upside-down in an effort to extract some sense from the text.

"Yes! Please!"

* * *

Flora made no further attempt to leave the room that day; after all, she was more than used to being confined in cramped quarters. She puzzled over several more entries from _Sea Creatures _with Teagan, then spent an hour writing out a series of improvised sentences that the bann dictated.

Many of them were related to the great horse fairs of the Marches that Teagan had attended in his youth. Flora painstakingly scribed statements such as _the dappled grey mare was sold for fourteen guineas, _and _the final steeplechase was won by a brave Ferelden Forder._

The bann, with a patience that he had not known he possessed, corrected each misspelled word, adding in capitalisations and commas where necessary.

Grateful for Teagan's assistance, Flora opened her mouth both to thank him and suggest a tactical break; anxious not to dissuade the bann from helping her in the future.

Teagan appeared about to follow her suggestion, half-rising to his feet as he set down the quill. Then, struck by an idea, he sat back down and cleared his throat.

"Do you know how to spell _Theirin, _pet?"

Flora thought for a moment, her expression dubious. She had a vague idea, but the name was full of confusing vowels and she was not entirely sure where they all belonged.

"T-h-," she began, then trailed off. "Um: _T-h-e-r-r-a-n?"_

"I'm going to teach you how to write it," the bann said, not quite looking her direct in the eye. "So that you're confident in the future."

_When you're using it as your new name, _he thought with a faint pang of regret. _Surely, you must have some inkling as to what Alistair intends by now?_

Flora smiled at him, reaching to pull a fresh sheet of parchment onto her knee.

"Alright," she said, and there was no hint of realisation in either expression or reply. "Teach me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So I wanted to show how conflicted Cullen is in this chapter – he's def still got some issues from the whole desire demon torture episode! He still carries a torch for Flora, but feels incredibly guilty over it – hence him being like YES YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN DISCIPLINED FOR GOING ON THE ROOF to Flora, lol. So he's going off to Kirkwall to try and get this rid of this inappropriate desire!
> 
> Slipped in a nasty little memory of Flora's imprisonment in Fort Drakon by Rendon Howe – when he forced her to bathe him, believing it to be the ultimate test of whether she was really Tranquil or not. Surely a Cousland who retained pride and dignity in their heritage would never stoop to such lows, with the man who had ordered the slaughter of Highever! Luckily, Flora had a healthy dose of Herring stoicism, and a healer's indifference to the naked body – hence she could maintain her poker face.


	27. In The Traitor's Lair

The hours passed by slow and steady, beams of light moving gradually across the floorboards as the sun began its long western arc. Teagan finished his correspondence and positioned himself at the window, watching various Templars come and go beneath Revanloch's crumbling entrance arch. The city of Denerim was visible in the distance, the Royal Palace perched on its supervisory edifice high above the estuary.

Cullen Rutherford was still berating himself inwardly for informing Flora that he ought to have had her disciplined for breaking curfew in the Circle. He stood, stiff and unhappy, before the doorway, tawny eyes fixed on the plastered wall opposite, mouth folded into a tight line.

Flora watered the plant that Leonas had given her, then became unduly anxious that she had over-saturated it. Not wanting it to die – after all, she could no longer prod life back into it with a finger – she spent several minutes scooping out the excess water with a spoon. Deciding grimly that horticulture wasn't for her, she sat back down on the window bench, taking the seat recently vacated by Teagan. Turning over the parchment so that _the Ferelden Forder won the steeplechase _was on the back, she began to painstakingly scribe her own sentences.

This was an arduous and time-consuming process, and soon a sweat had risen to Flora's forehead. She bit the end of the ink-pen, unable to stop herself from gnawing the end of the wooden shaft. Before she could stop herself, she had demolished near a quarter of it with her teeth.

"Bann Teagan, I've eaten your pen," she called across the room, sweating and unhappy. "I'm really sorry, the baby made me do it."

The bann came over and inspected his gnawed ink-pen, snorting. Curious, he glanced over Flora's shoulder at the scribbled sentences, one eyebrow rising.

"What's this, poppet?"

"A letter to Connor," she replied, frowning down at her spelling. "Do you spell Gregoir, _G-E-E-G-A-R?"_

Teagan paused, the chewed ink-pen motionless between his fingers; something odd flickering in the depths of his pale green Guerrin gaze.

"You're writing to my nephew?"

"Mm, at the Jainen Circle. I wrote to him when we first came to Denerim, I told him I would. He wrote back. He's seen lots of ships, and he's made a friend called Hen- _Henrich."_

When she wasn't delivering a speech for a specific purpose, the rhythm and flux of Flora's diction was classic Herring – short, rather abrupt sentences, strung together like fish on a line. Yet, Teagan was not listening to her peculiar northern delivery. The bann was still speechless at the revelation that – in the middle of the assembling of the army, in those frantic, dark days before the horde arrived at the city walls – the young Cousland had remembered a promise she had made months ago to a frightened ten year old boy.

"Anyway, how do you write Gregoir?" Flora repeated patiently, plucking the ink-pen neatly from the bann's fingers. "Grongor? _Gree-gwaaar?"_

Teagan took a deep, steadying breath; forcing the storm-surge of inappropriate emotion back into his gut.

"Shift over on the bench, lamb, I'll check your spellings. I'm not sure about Gregoir, but I'd wager it's not spelt _Gree-gwar."_

Worn out from such mental exertions, Flora decided to have a short rest. The baby, after shifting restlessly in her belly for an hour, had also deigned to settle down; mother and child taking concurrent naps. Entirely nonchalant about preparing for bed with others present – after all, she was a veteran of communal sleeping quarters – Flora changed back into her striped Theirin-crested pyjamas. Teagan gritted his teeth and directed his eyes to the ceiling; while the Templar kept a carefully neutral expression.

Seagulls made lazy circles around the crumbling towers of Revanloch as the sun eased itself beneath the horizon. Instead of the usual dinner gong, there came a strange succession of noises from somewhere within the monastery's labyrinthine heart. There was a distant echoing crash, followed by a quickly muffled shout. The acoustics of the cloisters meant that the sounds were projected even as far as the guest quarters, rousing Teagan from his musings.

The Mabari at the door – one of the guard-dogs brought down from the palace – let out a low growl of warning as the bann's hand went to his sword-hilt, immediately alert. He crossed the room in six steps, positioning himself at Flora's bedside.

Cullen, who had also heard the noise, drew his sword with a singing of metal as he met the bann's quick glance: _yes, I heard it too._

Flora, whose quick nap had accidentally turned into a four hour snooze, woke disorientated, having been disturbed by the bann's footsteps rather than the strange noise. In an instant she took in Teagan's vigilant expression and the Templar's drawn sword, and sat up in alarm.

"Wha- "

In the distance, there came the sound of running footsteps, metal boots against time-worn flagstones. Another shout followed it, ragged and muffled. Flora heard this new set of noises, and frowned in confusion, swinging feet legs out from beneath the furs.

"What's going on?"

"I don't know," replied Teagan tersely, keeping close at her side. "Stay with me."

Flora shot him a slightly bemused look, wandering over to the window and peering down into the courtyard. Her face immediately brightened, spotting a familiar crimson and gold banner leaning against a wall.

"Ooh! Alistair is here," she said, pleased. "I wonder why he hasn't come up? Maybe he's on his way."

Another distant shout echoed through the corridors of the monastery. Teagan glanced at Cullen, and the Templar gave a brief nod; positioning himself before the door.

"I'm hungry," continued Flora obviously, giving her swollen belly an absent-minded rub. "Did I miss dinner? Do you think there'll be anything left? That's _two _meals I've missed today."

Nobody made any reply, and she scowled over her shoulder, one palm spread over the window pane.

There suddenly came a loud, staccato rap on the door, so loud and unexpected that it startled each occupant of the room. The bann let out a muffled blasphemy under his breath, drawing his own sword as he shot a quick glance at Cullen. The Mabari snarled, low and threatening.

"Call off the dog," came a terse, familiar snap from the other side of the wood. "The danger is over."

It was the Templar Knight-Commander, and Cullen hastened to open the door. The man strode in, seemingly aged a decade, shock and rage engraved into the lines of his greying face.

"What's happened, man?" Teagan demanded, not quite ready to sheathe his blade.

The Knight-Commander glanced at Flora, who now looked thoroughly confused.

"My lady," he said, heavily. "The king is asking for you."

From the tone of the man's voice, it was clear that Alistair was not asking for, but _demanding_ that his mistress be brought to him.

Unable to locate her boots, Flora ended up sliding her feet into a pair of Leliana's silk slippers; which were too large and required the curling of toes to keep in place.

They followed the Knight-Commander down a series of passageways, past whispering initiates and restless guards. All of Revanloch seemed to be aware that something strange had transpired, that something was _not quite right. _Teagan, sweat beading on his brow, kept so close to Flora's side that he was almost treading on her heels.

Soon, it became clear that they were heading towards Revanloch's main Chantry. Clumps of grim-faced Royal Guard shifted their pikes from hand to hand as Flora approached; a tacit acknowledgement of their future queen.

There was a crowd gathered before the great doors that led into the Chantry. It was made up mainly of Templars and Royal Guardsmen, yet there were a not-insignificant number of soldiers clad in Highever livery also present. It was a Cousland retainer who first spotted Flora's approach, and gave a sharp bark of instruction.

"Make way for the lady Florence!"

The crowd parted before them, quiet and sombre.

Beyond the great doors, Revanloch's Chantry appeared the same as it had always done; a vast, cavernous space lined with a forest of ancient pillars. The stained glass windows and plethora of candles made little headway against the incense-scented shadow, yet there was a distant side-chapel that blazed with the brightness of torchlight.

It was towards this illuminated enclave that the Knight-Commander headed, his expression becoming more strained by the minute. A cluster of senior officers were gathered within the small chapel, huddled around a statue of Maferath.

The tallest man in the group turned around, hair gleaming burnished gold in the reflected light. Yet Alistair's face was pale and sickly beneath the summer tan, twin wolves of fear and anger fighting in his expression. A fine line worked its way across his forehead, and he appeared to have aged several years since Flora had last seen him.

The moment the king set eyes on her, a vast and indescribable relief passed over his face. Abandoning his terse conversation with a senior officer, Alistair strode forward with arms outstretched.

"Darling_."_

Flora, who still had no idea what was going on, went dutifully into her best friend's embrace, letting Alistair fold her tightly against his chest. She could feel the reverberation of his racing heart, thunderous within his ribcage.

"Alistair- "

"_Thank the Maker."_

"What's going on?"

"Just let me hold you for a second, Flo, I can't _think _straight- "

Flora gave up on extracting any sense from Alistair, clutching a fold of his tunic and letting him calm himself against her body. One of Alistair's hands had slid down to cradle the swell of their child, cupping it with a protective palm.

Out of the corner of her eye, Flora saw Teagan make his way through the crowd, then seemingly disappear into the ground. After a moment, she realised that a bronze grill set into the tiles had been moved to one side, revealing a flight of mildewed stone steps. They appeared to descend into a shadowed recess beneath the chapel, from which more angry and incredulous voices were rising.

Flora thought that she recognised one particular murmur; and indeed moments later Fergus Cousland emerged from the hidden stairway, his expression very grim.

"Fergus," she breathed, then repeated his name a little louder, squirming away from Alistair's arms. _"Fergus! _What's happened?"

Fergus let out a low hiss of warning directed towards the Cousland retainers gathered about them, shaking his head quickly from side to side.

"Don't let my sister go down there and see it," he instructed, voice taut. "It won't be good for the babe."

Flora, who was now beginning to grow a little irate, thrust Alistair's arms away and strode towards her brother; trusting in the haughty arrogance of her face to convey an authority that her striped pyjamas lacked. The Cousland soldiers, caught between loyalty to the teyrn and reluctance to stand in the _Hero of Ferelden's _path, looked mildly terrified. Ultimately they gave way, letting Flora confront her brother.

"Who's down there?" she asked, bluntly. _"What's_ down there?"

Fergus' eyes slid over her shoulder to Alistair, knowing that the king was the only one who Flora would ultimately listen to; not because of the crown, but because he was her best friend and former brother-warden_._

"Alistair, the shock won't be good for the child," the teyrn repeated, hearing muffled conversation from below. "You ought not let her- "

"Flo will be fine," Alistair said heavily, knowing his lover better than any other man present. "She can handle it, she's seen far worse. Sweetheart, let me help you on the steps."

This was in response to Flora, who had dodged Fergus' restraining arm and was striding determinedly towards the stairs. Alistair shot forward with remarkable speed for a man his size, reaching out to grip Flora's elbow as she peered down the treacherous flight.

"Lo, let me go first."

The steps were basalt and crumbling from age; there were at least a dozen of them, descending to a candlelit hollow beneath the Chantry tiles. Alistair led the way, keeping a tight grip on his best friend's arm as she navigated the treacherous stairwell. Flora slid one hand along the wall, the stone slick with mildew beneath her palm.

At the bottom lay a subterranean crypt that was both ancient and decrepit. The curved stone ceiling was cracked, the altar long since crumbled away into fragments. Spiders had decorated the low vaulted stonework with veils of webbing; these too were coated in a thin, dusty film. Candles – Flora recognised them as ones stolen from the Chantry above – littered the floor, their wax melting into soft pools on the broken tiles.

Yet it was not towards the scattered bones or ancient altar that Flora's eye was drawn, but to the figure hanging from a rusting iron hook bolted at the highest point in the curved stone ceiling. Thomas Howe, slack and grey, rotated slowly as he dangled by the neck; his expression contorted. Mottled black and blue bruising was visible on the skin beneath the taut ligature.

Flora had seen a hanged apprentice in the first month of arriving at the Circle (and her first drowning at the age of seven); dead men held no fear for her, especially after the events of the past year. Still, she felt a pang of sadness as she gazed upon the young man's bulging-eyed face, since Thomas Howe had only been her age.

Zevran and Leliana framed the scene, he leaning against the wall and cleaning a blade, and she in the process of removing something from her hooded cloak. It appeared to be some sort of padding, and to Flora's surprise, she spotted her own missing boots on the bard's feet.

"Thomas Howe _was _here," Flora breathed, astounded. "All along. Are you alright?"

Casting a wary glance at the hanging man, she sidled past and went to her companions; her eyes sweeping over them to ensure that they were not hurt.

"We're fine, _ma crevette,_" Leliana replied, her face flushed with pleasure at a job well done. "Zevran, perhaps you would like to recant the story? This is the fruition of your scheming, after all."

The elf nodded, unable to stop his lip curling in contempt as he eyed the rotating corpse.

"I wanted to ascertain whether my suspicions – and the rumours from my contacts - were correct, about the Howe being present within Revanloch. When he first attacked you, _carina, _it was from within this Chantry; so it was here that Leliana and I put our plan into motion. With the aid of your Templars, of course."

Zevran made a gesture, and Flora turned to see Chanter Devotia and Knight-Captain Gannorn flanking the stairwell, their expressions equally neutral.

"Our lovely bard took your boots, borrowed your mourning garb and your voice, and made a loud display of grief outside the Chantry; sending the Templars away so that she could pray for her departed spirits alone. Providing the perfect bait for our would-be assassin."

Flora turned to Leliana, noticing the discarded cushion that the bard had used to emulate a swollen stomach.

"You pretended to be _me?!" _she breathed, astounded. They both had red hair, but in all other aspects, the tall and graceful bard was Flora's physical opposite.

Leliana pulled the dark veil of mourning back over her face and somehow appeared to _shrink, _carrying herself in such a way that she seemed several inches shorter.

"'_Leave me in peace!'" _she demanded throatily, in a near-perfect emulation of Flora's flat northern tones. _"'I want to say a prayer for my spirits without you both glaring at me!'"_

The inflection, speech pattern and mannerisms were flawless; Flora's jaw dropped in shock.

"Leliana, you sound just like a Herring girl," she said after a moment, her eyes wide and round. "You're so _clever."_

The bard smiled demurely, pushing back the veil and reclaiming her full height.

"Well, the Howe was fooled well enough," she murmured, eyes lifting towards the shadowed ceiling. "He made his move in the Chantry, 'forcing' me down here at knife-point. Very quickly, it became clear that I was not his intended prey."

Flora's mouth twisted in dismay and she went over to her companion, reaching out to clutch Leliana's slender, lace-gloved fingers.

"That was so _dangerous _for you," she bemoaned, clasping Leliana's hand tightly and bringing it to her chest. "You could've been hurt."

Meanwhile, Alistair had crossed to stand beside Zevran; his face still contorted with rage and relief. The elf glanced sideways to confirm that Flora was still preoccupied with Leliana, then lowered his voice.

"I offered him a choice of farewell: the noose or the knife," Zevran murmured, dark irises settling once more on Howe's dangling figure. "Just as you requested, _mi rey. _No possibility of _carina _feeling sorry for him and begging for his life."

Alistair gave a taut nod, his green-flecked hazel eyes lacking even the slightest shred of remorse.

"I know he was young – well, my age – but he threw a _blade _at Lo. No mercy for anybody who tries to harm her, _ever."_

"I agree, Alistair. And, see- "

The elf made a gesture towards the back of the crypt, just as Flora withdrew anxiously from Leliana.

They turned as one to see a strange tangle of metal and leather near the crumbling wall; the torchlight reflecting off stained chains and blunt-edged blades.

Fergus, avoiding a half-broken skull lying on the dusty floor, approached the pile as though in a dream. Reaching down, he lifted a pair of rusting manacles, a metal gag attached by a corroded chain. Other various instruments lay haphazardly amidst the crumbling fragments of brick; a pair of pliers, a blade with jagged teeth, a spiked cuff for the neck.

"Maker's Breath," the teyrn muttered, contempt infusing the words. "The sick little bastard. These are _torture_ devices."

Flora flinched as Alistair inhaled unsteadily beside her, the king's pupils shrinking to small dots of unadulterated hatred. A heartbeat later, he had wrenched a pike from a nearby guardsman, striding across the dusty tiles towards the manifestation of Howe's sadistic urges. Spurred by a volatile, barely controlled rage he used the blunt wooden end of the pike to systematically break manacles and torture devices alike into fragments of jagged metal. This was no small feat; but Alistair's strength was fuelled by unadulterated fury. He laid into the twisted iron as though he were beating in the skull of a Howe – father or son – fragments of stone skidding outwards as the tiles splintered under the brutal battering.

Meanwhile, Flora looked down at her stomach, feeling a lump of sadness rise painfully through her throat.

_Little creature: can you feel pain in there? I don't think you would have survived what Thomas Howe had planned for me._

The thought of the unborn child experiencing even the slightest discomfort was so distressing that tears threatened to spill over her cheeks. Flora took a deep breath, willing herself to calm down. She envisioned her Herring-dad's familiar scowl; his furrowed grimace of disapproval at such a rampart display of emotion.

_Calm down. Alistair needs you to be calm; or he'll get even angrier._

_You're a northerner. You're the rock against which the ocean breaks itself._

She took another steadying breath, envisioning the soft, grey whisper of waves creeping over shingle-ridged sand. Walking past the hanging corpse without looking at it, she crossed to the back of the crypt; where her former brother-warden was losing himself in a fit of brutal, helpless rage.

"Alistair," Flora said, and her quiet, flat intonation was enough to break through the muddied crimson haze of Alistair's fury.

He turned with the guard's pike still gripped in his fists, eyes wide and staring. Flora stepped forward, kicking the remains of a manacle across the dusty tile, and reached up to touch his face.

_Calm down, _her eyes warned him, torchlight catching on the gold flick embedded within the pale iris. _Brother-warden._

"Flora," the king said, raw and despairing. "He wanted to _torture_ you. I... I could tear him apart with my teeth, like a Mabari."

"Alistair."

"_Look_ at all this stuff, Flora! He wanted to hurt you – to _punish you. _Maker's Breath!"

"It's pointless to get angry about things you can't change," she replied, with Herring-instilled practicality. "Think about what you can do stop such things happening in the future. It's more _productive._"

Alistair deflated, anger draining out of him like a spilt wine glass as he saw the logic behind her argument. He let the pike drop from his hand as though it had scalded him; the wooden length clattering onto the fractured tiles. Flora gazed hopefully up at him and he reached out to cradle her cheeks in his hands, framing her face with his cupped fingers.

"My northern star," he said at last, the words emerging soft and rueful. "Right, then."

The king turned to the others crowded within the crypt, his face filled with grim purpose.

"I want the body cut into four pieces and hung over each entrance to the city," he said, referencing the standard punishment for traitors. "And Fergus, you've a Mabari bitch in pup?"

"Aye," replied the teyrn, with a nod. "Saela. She's from the same litter as Jethro, very good blood. Due in a month or so, according to the kennel-master."

"I want two of the pups – the _strongest _two – for Flo. To guard her, and the babe."

"I think that sounds very good," replied Fergus, relief infusing the words. "I was saying to Finn the other day; if only my father had had more hounds at Highever, Howe's treachery might have been averted."

Alistair exhaled unsteadily, his hand stretching blindly behind him. Flora's fingers wrapped themselves dutifully in his, and the king drew his mistress to stand close at his side.

"And Zev, Leliana, anything that you want, you'll have it," he said, quietly. "Anything within my power to give. I can't thank you enough for what you've done."

Both bard and Crow immediately opened their mouths to protest, but Alistair shook his head to interrupt their rejection.

"Think about it," he instructed, firmly. "Let me know."

"Aye," added Fergus, stepping forward to pass a palm over his little sister's head. "I'm a man of great resources, too. I'm sure that between us, we can come up with a suitable reward."

"_Your Lordship,"_ murmured Zevran, a faint teasing tone to his reply. "We once swore that we would protect our Warden from all who wished to harm her. That oath did not end when the Blight did."

Flora, inexplicably touched, extracted her fingers from Alistair's and stepped forward; avoiding the Cousland retainers as they busied themselves retrieving the dangling corpse. She embraced both of her companions in turn, not quite sure how else to express her gratitude.

* * *

That night, Alistair took far longer than normal to part from his mistress; unable to remove images of rusted manacles and other cruel devices from his mind. He stood in Revanloch's outer courtyard, mindless of the pouring drizzle, his arms wrapped around Flora's waist as he gazed down at her in the torchlight. She stared back up at him, the fire moving across her face like the setting of the sun; hair hanging in damp tendrils before her ears.

"I love you," he told her for the third time in a half-hour; for the thousandth time in six months; earnest as when he had first confessed it in the bedchamber at Redcliffe Castle. "I love you more than I can say. Maker, I can't wait for this month to be over."

Flora smiled up at him, grateful that some of the tension had drained from her brother-warden's furrowed brow. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the remains of Thomas Howe being brought out wrapped in undignified hessian sacking; a cart waiting in readiness to transport the corpse to the city.

Despite everything that had transpired, Flora felt a pang of sympathy for a young man who had been born into a cruel family through no fault of his own; who had been warped by the twisted predilections of his father, and consumed by a subsequent need for revenge.

_I hope you find some peace in the Fade, _she thought, swallowing her sorrow so that Alistair did not see it. _I hope the spirits are kind to you._

Turning her gaze from the hessian sacking as it was dumped unceremoniously in the back of the cart, Flora stood on her toes to kiss her best friend on the mouth.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she said, as Fergus waited patiently on horseback nearby. "I love you too."

Alistair bowed his head to close the ten inch difference in height between them, kissing her on the nose, both cheeks and mouth in rapid succession; clearly reluctant to leave.

"Alistair, any much longer and it's going to be your birthday," Fergus called down impatiently from the saddle. "Justinian will end, and you'll still be attached to my sister's _face_."

"Is it my birthday soon, too?" asked Flora, with vague curiosity.

"Aye, Floss," replied Fergus, smiling at her. "The day after. First of Solace. Are you looking forward to it?"

"As much as any other day," said Flora, honestly. She had never celebrated her birthday, and had only a vague understanding of when in the year it fell. Nobody in Herring put much stock in the day they were born; and they certainly did not expect anyone else to recognise the occasion.

Fergus glanced at Alistair, who had a slightly odd expression on his face.

"Well, you'll be turning two decades of age, Lo," the king said, carefully not looking directly at her. "It's a… special moment. It needs to be properly commemorated."

"I'm not going to be 'two decades', whatever that means," Flora corrected, shooting him a puzzled look. "I'll be _two-ty. _One up from nineteen."

As she held up a finger to illustrate Alistair bit back a laugh, kissing her on the mouth to hide the grin.

"That's right, darling. My mistake."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author: Classic Flora at the end there, lol. Maths is not her strong suit! Or writing, or reading, haha.
> 
> I wanted to have a bit of Leliana being a badass in this character – and also show off her bard/rogue-y type skills! With the masquerading as Flora in her mourning gear (including the veil), to lure Thomas Howe into showing himself.
> 
> The chopping the traitor into bits and hanging them at the city entrances sounds messed up, but was a legit tactic used in Medieval times to dissuade criminals! But I also wanted to show a bit of hardened Alistair. Flora still has some residual guilt after blowing up Rendon Howe's head (oops), so she would have shown some compassion towards his so


	28. An Audience With The Grand-Duc

Three days later, the morning of Flora's celebratory feast arrived. It was an unusually fine Fereldan summer day, the sky a clear and uninterrupted swathe of duck-egg blue, blurring into an Amaranthine ocean unruffled by breeze.

Within Denerim, the people chattered amongst themselves excitedly; the gossip on the streets being that the _Lady Cousland _was returning – albeit temporarily – to the city. Royal Guardsmen were bribed to leak details of her route up to the palace; which gate would be used, and whether she would be travelling on roadways or taking a barge. Fortunately, Theirin soldiers were loyal – and wary of the king's reprisal - and they betrayed no details of the lady's chosen course.

Still, nothing could dampen the spirit of excitement within the city – all districts rustled with a buzz of gleeful gossip, save for the docks. This part of the city still housed near two hundred refugees, those who not yet managed to scrape together the coin for passage out of Ferelden. These unfortunate travellers huddled in grubby clusters beneath the tiles of an abandoned fish market, hungry and forlorn; many of them from Gwaren, Lothering, and Honnleath.

Revanloch, hunched on its rocky promontory, managed to somehow defy the brilliant sunshine and remain as dour and sombre as ever. The late-Justinian warmth could not penetrate the crumbling stone walls, and made little headway within the shadowed courtyards.

Up in the guest chamber, Flora had been awake for several hours in anticipation. She was perched on the edge of the bed, wincing as Leliana wove a half-dozen slender braids within her heavy mass of hair. The bard was determined to emphasise Flora's Alamarri heritage; knowing that her colouring of pale skin, watercolour grey eyes and oxblood hair harkened back to these first ancient rulers of Ferelden.

"Ow! _Ouch."_

"If you'd brush your hair and braid it in the evening, like I _tell _you, it wouldn't work itself into such a bird's nest by morning!" retorted the bard, whose own strawberry blonde locks were already neatly coiffed. "Anyway, have you changed your mind about the robe?"

"_No!"_

Flora, having successfully negotiated her way into her usual navy tunic and boots, now watched Leliana put the final touches on her makeup. The bard had managed to perfect the art of enhancing her features so subtly that it was impossible to tell that cosmetics had even been applied. The lay sister _tsked _at herself in the mirror, licking her fingers to mute some of the _rouge _decorating her cheeks.

"Too much _maquillage_ for this outfit," she murmured absent-mindedly, smoothing a hand over her damask Chantry robes.

"Mack-a-what?"

"Cosmetics," replied Leliana, taking one final glance in the mirror. "Are you ready, _ma petite? _Ugh, are you wearing _those _boots? I despair!"

Flora finished tightening the leather strap around her knee, feeling the usual reflexive defensiveness that rose whenever Leliana criticised her footwear.

"These boots have been with me since Ostagar! They've been in the Deep Roads, the Brecilian Forest…_ I killed the Archdemon in these boots!"_

"All the more reason to throw them out," retorted Leliana, immediately. "They're probably covered in all sorts of- "

"Lady Cousland?"

A servant clad in a Chantry tabard made a demure entrance, head bowed.

"Oh, is the escort from the Palace here?" Leliana asked, glancing around for her silken purse. "Tell them we'll just be a moment. They're _early. _Is Bann Teagan with them?"

The Chantry servant bowed once more, while simultaneously shaking his head.

"No, lay-sister. The Lady Cousland has a guest, they're waiting downstairs."

Flora frowned, she was not expecting anyone in particular. Leliana's face settled into a more prominent scowl, her powdered nostrils flaring.

"They've picked a poor day to visit," the bard grumbled. "We need to depart for the feast; they'll either have to accompany us, or wait here until we return. Who is it?"

The servant swallowed, and Flora noticed beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead.

"An Orlesian, by the name of _G-Gasper Deshallyon."_

"Gasper Deshallyon?"

"_Gasp.. Gaspard Deshallon…"_

Leliana inhaled sharply, her fingers fluttering towards her mouth.

"_Gaspard de Chalons? _The _Grand Duc? _Cousin of the Empress Celene? _Chevalier _of the Order?"

"He's a long way from Val Royeaux," Flora said, unimpressed by a string of titles. "Do you think he's lost?"

Leliana shook her head slowly, finely plucked eyebrows lodged within her auburn hairline.

"_Non."_

"Then why _is_ he here?"

"I believe he has a purpose, though I know not what it could be," the bard murmured. "Still, there is only one way to find out. Are you ready for your first diplomatic exchange with the _Valmonts, ma crevette?"_

Flora grunted, grateful for the natural haughtiness of her fine-boned features; solemn and enigmatic as any Orlesian mask.

"Not really."

Before they left the room, Leliana slid one of her narrowest blades up her sleeve, expression carefully blank. Flora gaped, eyes expanding like saucers.

"Do you think he's _dangerous?"_

"Not _dangerous, _exactly," replied the bard, summoning a bright and detached smile. "But ruthless – _oui. _Very much so."

The Grand _Duc_ was waiting downstairs within the Knight-Commander's office. The Knight-Commander himself had been relegated to the mildewed corridor, twitching and unhappy. The entrance to the office was flanked with Orlesian guards, clad in the argent and blue livery of the Valmonts. Instead of the closed-face helms worn by the Theirin Royal Guardsmen, these soldiers had their faces obscured by ornate silver masks. Their halberds were decorated with finely worked filigree, though the blade's razor-sharp edge proved it a weapon well enough.

As Flora and Leliana entered the room, Gaspard de Chalons was inspecting a moth-eared tapestry depicting Andraste and her disciples. Hearing the door open, he turned on a heel with militaristic swiftness; crossing the room in a handful of strides.

"My lady Cousland," he said, bowing down with a practised flourish. "It is a privilege and an honour to meet you."

He gripped her fingers and kissed them in typical Orlesian manner; Flora took advantage of this brief interlude to dart her eyes quickly over this mysterious new arrival. The _duc_ was a stocky, powerfully built man who appeared to be nearing his sixth decade, greying hair cropped close enough to his head to see the pink skin below. He was regally clad in crimson and ochre, and small, clever green eyes were framed by a silvered mask.

Flora continued to gaze at the _duc_ thoughtfully as he straightened, not entirely sure what to say. The Orlesian noble graciously pulled out a chair for her to sit, taking a seat on the opposite side of the desk. Leliana elected to remain standing; made subtle by the demure camouflage of a Chantry sister.

"May I first pass on our gratitude to the nation of Ferelden for the defeat of the Fifth Blight," Gaspard said quietly, peeling off his leather travel gloves one finger at a time.

Flora nodded slowly, her pale eyes meeting the glass-green irises of the _duc_. He was staring at her with unblinking intensity, as though trying to penetrate the ambiguous mask of her haughty features in order to perceive the girl underneath. Flora, who had once looked the Archdemon in its scaled, hooded eye, was unimpressed.

_Is he trying to intimidate me?_

There came no response, and Flora gave an inward sigh; wondering if she would ever get used to the silence that now followed her thoughts.

_Well, I think he _is _trying to intimidate me. What is it with these Orlesians?_

On getting no reply from Flora save from a vacant stare; Gaspard continued, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"Orlais would have stood ready to assist… if assistance had been requested."

"Ferelden managed well enough alone," said Flora blandly, fixing her pale, Cousland eyes on him.

Gaspard nodded, settling back in the chair and touching his fingertips together.

"_Oui, _especially considering that your nation is not exactly renowned within Thedas for its military prowess."

Flora felt outrage flare within her stomach; with effort, she kept it from her face.

"I'm surprised that Orlais doesn't remember the strength of our army," she replied, innocently. "How many decades has it been since the rebels ousted you from Ferelden?"

Gaspard's grey eyebrows rose from behind his mask, his fingers steepling together.

"Forgive me, my lady," he countered, in arch tones. "Were you even _alive _during the Orlesian occupation, or the Fereldan war of independence? You do seem very… young."

"You're right," replied Flora, with the impudence of any adolescent girl. "I'm not old enough to remember a time when Orlais was a great military power. I'll have to check my history books later."

Leliana had to bite back a smile, inordinately proud of her young charge. The grand _duc_ looked astounded for a moment, and then let out a gruff bark of laughter, looking a fraction friendlier.

"My lady, I have a gift I wish to formally present to you, on behalf of the Empress and I."

Gaspard barked out an instruction in his native tongue, and two livery-clad retainers came struggling in; clutching something large and covered in a silk cloth. With mutual grunts of exertion, they deposited the item onto the desk, bowing low before making their exit.

The grand _duc _rose to his feet, taking hold of the navy satin and pulling it free with a triumphal gesture. A great golden fish rose up from a sculpted wave; each fin and scale carved with exceptional care. Flora stared at it, utterly nonplussed.

"It is, ah, how do you say it? _Un hareng."_

"A herring," she translated, having recognised the shape of the fin.

"_Oui. _The story of your… _unusual _upbringing has been a source of much fascination in the _salons_ of Val Royeaux."

The_ duc_ eyed her from behind the ornate mask, his curiosity no less assuaged by meeting the Hero of Ferelden in person. Florence Cousland gave nothing away, her face as ambiguous and fine-featured as any Orlesian mask.

"Hm," Flora said at last, reaching out to run her finger over the gilded scales. "I'm not sure how good a swimmer this fish would be. But thank you for this _imaginative_ present."

Gaspard made no reply; merely curled his lips upwards at her beneath the mask.

Leliana took advantage of the pause to clear her throat delicately. When she spoke, the Orlesian accent had been smoothed away to near-nothingness, her tongue shaping words like a Fereldan.

"Lady Florence, the feast will be starting soon. We ought to depart."

"Please," interrupted the _duc,_ inclining his head politely. "Allow me to escort you to Denerim, my lady. I have a carriage and horse waiting in the courtyard."

In a split second, Flora weighed up the benefits and drawbacks to accepting the Orlesian's offer.

_He's not going to hurt me. It'd start a war._

_What's a carriage, anyway? Some sort of fancy cart?_

_If I say no, it'll look like I'm afraid._

_Leliana will be with me, I'll be fine._

"Thank you," she said at last, unable to stop herself from casting a final, dubious glance at the golden fish statuette.

As it happened, a carriage turned out to be more than just a _fancy cart. _A sweating coachman held open the gilded door, as Flora eyed the ornately worked metal with increasing wariness. Leliana clambered in beside her, with a soft purr of appreciation at the velvet furnishings.

"I'm not sure carriages have caught on yet in Ferelden," the _duc_ commented idly, settling back against the cushions as Flora sat rigidly opposite, trying hard not to let her apprehension show on her face. "Does your king still ride around on _horseback?"_

"Yes," Flora replied, summoning some spirit into her reply. "The king of Ferelden is loved by his people and can ride freely among them. From what I've heard, it's no surprise that some Orlesian nobles require a layer of protection between them and their subjects."

The _duc_ snorted once more, eyeing her with increasing appreciation as the carriage set off.

"You are… not what I expected, Florence Cousland. That child is the king's, yes?"

Flora nodded, already deciding that she hated this new form of transport. They went over a large pothole and the entire carriage rattled, the occupants within jolting up and down. Grimly, Flora anchored herself to the velvet bench with her fingertips, offering a silent apology to the little creature within her belly.

"I see," replied Gaspard, seeming to retreat into his own thoughts. _"Interesting."_

* * *

The journey took longer than it would have done on horseback, due to the need to navigate the crumbling roadways and clifftop path. The horses made a wilful effort, sweat breaking out on their flanks as they heaved the carriage down the final long incline towards the city walls.

To one side, the Alamarri plains stretched out to the west of the city, the river estuary gleaming in the sunlight as it snaked leisurely towards the Bannorn hills. The land had been irrevocably scarred by the battle that had taken place there a month prior; only a few scant patches of grass remained amidst a sea of mud and earth. The remains of the dwarven trenches and gullies could still be seen, along with the tangled wreckage of field weaponry too broken for redemption.

Flora did not want to look at the plains, memories of the battle too raw and sharp still for palatable recall. Gaspard, conversely, appeared fascinated by them; shifting position along the velvet bench to gain a better view.

Meanwhile Leliana hummed softly to herself, peering out of the window and fiddling with the lacy edge of her glove. By some miracle – or a set of well-honed abdominal muscles – she barely seemed to register the uneven surface; remaining perfectly serene and stable as the carriage lurched about her.

"It appears that Ferelden's roadways are in need of some maintenance," offered the grand _duc_ at last, relying on his muscled bulk to keep him steady on the cushions. "You may wish to whisper something on the matter to your king, my lady."

Flora, who was jammed into one corner of the bench in an attempt to wedge herself in place, managed to summon up a retort.

"My king is committed to rebuilding the nation after the Blight," she replied, feeling the little creature nudge irritably against her kidney. "Filling in _holes in the roads_ is not a great priority for him at the moment."

Gaspard opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by the sound of approaching hoof-steps, and the shouts of men. Leliana peered out of the carriage window, her sky-blue eyes lighting up like Dalish lanterns.

"It's Bann Teagan and the escort. Stop the carriage!"

The bard reached out to open the carriage door as the bann reined his horse expertly to a halt alongside them.

Teagan's expression was a mixture of raw suspicion and naked alarm; he had clearly identified the Valmont coat of arms painted on the side of the carriage. Surprise was quickly added to the blend as his gaze settled on Flora, rigid and unhappy in one corner. He stared at her, and she made a tiny grimace back at him.

"_Grand-Duc,"_ the bann said, after a short pause. "You're aware that you've arrived a fortnight early for the coronation?"

"I am aware, _bann," _replied Gaspard, equally coolly. "I have some personal business with the new teyrn of Highever."

Teagan made a quick gesture inside the carriage, his Guerrin eyes hawklike in their unblinking focus.

"This is not the teyrn of Highever," he stated, evenly. "And your decision to visit the teyrn's sister at Revanloch is in deliberate defiance of protocol. She is not of voting age; there ought to have been elders present."

The grand _duc _smiled, though his eyes behind the mask stayed sharp and thoughtful.

"My apologies," he murmured, after a moment. "Although I do not believe that the lady had any need for elders. She defied me as belligerently as any _Landsmeet _veteran."

Teagan flashed Flora a fleeting smile.

"Still," he continued, voice steady. "I'll take the Lady Cousland to the city from here, _grand-duc._ Lay-sister Leliana, would you like to accompany us?"

"I'll be fine," a demure Leliana replied in her Fereldan-accented guise, folding her fingers in her lap. "We'll follow you in the carriage."

_And I'll see what I can find out about this man's purpose, _her eyes added, silently.

Teagan gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, then reached out his arms towards the carriage. Flora clambered to her feet, awkwardly stepping over the _grand-duc's _boots to reach the doorway. The bann leaned over and lifted her onto his saddle, feeling an internal twinge of relief as she settled back against his chest.

"_À bientôt, _my lady," called the _grand-duc _out of the window, his mouth curling upwards in an amused smile beneath his mask.

Teagan barked an order to his retainers, and they turned their horses back around towards the city of Denerim. The city walls were now only a few minutes ride away; they were close enough to see the great banners of Theirin hanging crimson and gold against the lofty stonework.

The bann let out a low exhalation, keeping one arm wrapped tightly around Flora's abdomen as they rode slowly towards the western gate.

"I'm sorry that I was late," he said after a moment, removing a strand of her hair that had blown back against his face. "Are you alright, poppet?"

"Mm," replied Flora, letting go of the pommel and trusting in the bann's strong grip to keep her astride the saddle.

"Do you know who that was?"

"… Gosper?"

"_Gaspard de Chalons, _one of the most notorious members of the Orlesian court and ruler of Verchiel." Teagan wrinkled his nose, his distaste for Val Royeaux politics apparent. "Outmanoeuvred to the Sunburst Throne by his cousin Celene, his wife Calienne engineered the death of Celene's mother in a _hunting accident, _then was murdered herself by Celene's father."

Flora twisted in the saddle and gaped up at him. The bann laughed at the expression on her face, shortening the reins expertly as they approached the gate.

"I know, pet. Stuff of stories, isn't it? The Orlesian Court is a snake-pit."

"It sounds horrible," replied Flora, bluntly. "I can't believe someone as lovely as Leliana came out of all that. Why would he want to see _me?"_

Teagan let out a low, ambiguous grunt, his grip tightening a fraction around her waist.

"Well," he said, softly. "You're a valuable political pawn now, Flora. A Cousland girl, Hero of Ferelden, and carrying a royal child."

_In addition to the incalculable advantage of that face _the bann thought, but did not add.

"A valuable political _prawn_," replied Flora, remembering his attempts to teach her chess. She smiled to herself, feeling a low rumble of laughter within the bann's chest.

"Indeed. Looking forward to your feast? I hope you didn't break your fast too extensively this morning."

"Oh, I ate a _ton _earlier. But I've always got room for more," Flora replied, blithely. "I think I must have two stomachs, like a starfish. You know, a starfish isn't actually a fish? It's part of the mollusc family."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I always headcanon Alamarri culture as being based on the Celts, since they're meant to be the tribal ancestors of Ferelden's greatest families. So I envisioned an Alamarri hairstyle to be very Celtic, lots of little braids and woven bits!
> 
> I like this chapter because Flora is inadvertently showing her capability to be Queen – Ferelden needs leaders who can be defiant and independent in the face of Orlais. But I think it's important to note that her ability to engage in political wordplay with Gaspard isn't a product of her Cousland blood, but her Herring childhood – she was raised in a community of grim-faced fishermen, who feared the sea and little else. Her fisher-father, Pel, wouldn't have taken any shit from an Orlesian duke; and neither will Flora, lol.
> 
> Orlais is definitely still a great military power, haha, Flora is just being obstinate! I think Gaspard appreciates the verbal sparring, though. Imagine her face when she sees the giant gold fish, though! Part of her is like OMG GIANT METAL FISH, and part of her is like what's the point?! Also, she is Bad at Orlesian names... GOSPER.


	29. Flora's Feast

As Teagan and Flora approached the city gates, a shout went up on the walls. Flora blinked in astonishment as a swarm of soldiers popped up on the ramparts like herons, swords raised in greeting. More armoured men came streaming out from beneath the portcullis, forming a guard of honour at either side of the road.

"What's going on?" Flora asked, peering over her shoulder. "Is this for Gosper?"

"No, petal."

Lady Cousland! the cry echoed down from the city walls. Lady Cousland!

Hearing the outcry of the guards, it was now the turn of the civilians to flock down towards the gate. Children scampered onto the city walls, clinging precariously to the ramparts as they waved frantically at the approaching riders. In mere minutes, a crowd of almost two hundred had formed to greet the lady Cousland as she returned to Denerim for the first time in three weeks. They knew that she had arrived for her celebratory feast, and wanted to gain a glimpse before she vanished behind the fortress-like walls of the Royal Palace.

For a fleeting moment, Flora was genuinely astounded. Safely enclosed within Revanloch's walls, the Templar initiates under strict instruction not to harass her; it had become easy to ignore her new prominence within Fereldan society. To be so suddenly reminded of her own fame was somewhat disorientating.

Lady Cousland! Lady Cousland!

Still, Flora had been the centre of attention before. She summoned a memory from when she had been Warden-Commander - inspecting the troops on the Alamarri plains, with the heat of ten thousand curious stares resting between her shoulder blades.

Teagan felt her stiffen, pushing herself up on the saddle to gain a few extra inches of height.

At least, Flora thought grimly to herself, sweeping her cool Cousland stare across the assembled crowds. They don't expect me to smile and wave. They know I always look sulky.

Don't look at the cage above the gate; it's got a bit of Thomas Howe in it.

She lifted her chin to acknowledge the cries and hails, hearing the excited murmurs reach a frenzy as her swollen stomach came into full view of the crowds.

"The taverns are taking bets on when the royal baby is due," Teagan murmured in her ear, clearly amused. "A great deal of coin is wagered on the workings of your belly."

"What are the odds?" breathed Flora, genuinely curious. A daring youth darted forwards, tucking a flower into Teagan's stirrup before being chased away by a guard.

"Fourth week of Kingsway is the most popular bet, last I checked," Teagan replied with a chuckle, betraying his own vested interest. "But there's an increasing number who believe it'll be the middle of Harvestmere. First children are often late, or so I've been told. Not exactly my area of expertise."

Teagan, the confirmed bachelor, gave a wry shrug.

"Me either," said Flora, bestowing a smile on a small child who was running alongside their horse and squeaking with excitement.

"Soon as you're back in the palace – next week, aye – we'll get the midwife in again."

They had reached the largest bridge, where the main roadway cut a great east-west swathe through the city. Teagan made to turn the horse's head westwards, towards the noble district and royal palace; then Flora reached out to rest her fingers on the back of his hand.

"Not that way," she said, conspiratorially. "That way."

"East?"

"Mm."

Meanwhile, up in the Royal Palace, Alistair had finally acquiesced to some assistance with dressing. He was so distracted by the multitude of events in the upcoming fortnight – Flora's feast, their birthdays, meetings with the trade guilds, the coronation – that he had fastened his tunic incorrectly three times in a row.

Eventually, he let out a frustrated bark for help. The young groom, who had been waiting for this moment for months, scuttled in from the Royal corridor with head bowed decorously to hide the beam of delight. Alistair, a little self-conscious, stood rigid in place as he was laced and buttoned into the garb of a Fereldan king.

Running a finger over the neatly trimmed hair across his jaw – Alistair reckoned that the short beard added at least five years to his age – he glanced around for the crown. Guilluame, the Royal Steward who had served the Theirins for two generations, advanced with the spiked golden band in its protective case.

"Are you coming down to the feast, Will?" Alistair asked, adjusting the position of the band on his head and glancing briefly in the mirror. "The head cook has been back and forth to Revanloch at least three times. I'm glad that Flo has been so enthusiastic about organising it."

"It should be a memorable occasion, Your Majesty," murmured Guilluame decorously in response, knowing far more than he was letting on. "Speaking of the lady Florence-"

Alistair grimaced to himself as they headed down the Royal corridor together, making their way towards the great hall where banquets were customarily held.

"I know what you're going to ask."

"Majesty?"

Alistair put on a rather poor attempt at a Nevarran accent, in an effort to emulate Guilluame's distinctive intonation.

"'Your Majesty. Does the lady Florence actually know about her upcoming nuptials?' Well, the answer is, no. No, she does not. She has no idea, and the dressmakers' guild keeps nagging me about getting her measurements for the bridal gown. The standard-makers have already made three dozen banners with our combined heraldry! And she doesn't know!"

Guilluame blinked, running his fingers through the oiled point of his silver beard.

"I see your dilemma," he said at last, as they passed the hunted halla tapestry at the top of the stairs. "If I may presume to ask – why haven't you asked the lady yet?"

"I don't know," replied Alistair, bleakly. "She was so upset after finding out that her spirits were gone. And then – I suppose I wanted to court her properly. She deserves the best, Will, she deserves the best of everything. I wanted the proposal to be perfect. But now the coronation is – ten days away! – and she doesn't know that we're getting married on the same day."

Alistair visibly slumped, head bowed like a chastised Mabari.

"I just didn't want to overwhelm her," he muttered, glancing up at the stained glass Calenhad window. The sunlight shone through, illuminating his ancestor's face in jewel tones. "It took me months to accept becoming king. Marrying me is more than just a ring, it's a throne."

Guilluame gave a soft grunt of acknowledgement, silvery eyes flashing like fish darting through the water as they approached the main hall.

"The lady Cousland seems to be an adaptable creature," he replied diplomatically, ears pricking as booted footsteps approached from a side corridor. "Ah, here come the others. Excuse me a moment, your majesty."

Sure enough, Finian's high-pitched laughter preceded him around the corner; the young, russet-haired noble appearing particularly piratical in a leather eye-patch.

"I'm going to need all my shirts let out before the coronation," he was saying, with a slight roll of the eyes. "This'll be the fourth banquet this month. Fergus, you're getting a little soft about the belly- "

The teyrn, who was deep in conversation with Leonas, managed to elbow his brother in the ribs without interrupting his sentence.

"Morning, Alistair."

"Morning, uncle," Alistair returned his uncle's greeting as Eamon clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Has Teagan gone to collect Flo?"

The arl of Redcliffe gave a nod, having seen Teagan off with several retainers on horseback earlier that morning.

"Aye, lad. There was a short delay, but he's well on his way. They ought to be here by now."

Alistair beamed, delighted to have his best friend back within the confines of the palace.

"Where is she?" he asked, immediately. "Is she with the others – oh."

The king trailed off as they entered the entrance hall, brow furrowing. The cavernous space was dim and smoky as usual, the fireplaces lit in defiance of the sunlight filtering in through the high windows. Gathered in one corner were several of Flora's companions – Wynne was talking animatedly to Oghren, while Zevran leaned against a hearth and fiddled idly with a blade strapped to his forearm.

"Ha, it's Prince Charming!" Oghren bellowed across the entrance hall, waving a meaty arm in greeting. "All hail! You know," he said, to a wide-eyed passing servant. "I knew the king when he were just plain Warden Alistair, blue-ballin' over a lass he hadn't even bedded- "

The dwarf let out a cough as Wynne's bony elbow swung with surprising strength into his ribcage.

The senior enchanter advanced across the entrance hall, her eyebrows rising into her silver hairline.

"Dear boy," she murmured, kissing Alistair on the cheek as her shrewd blue gaze searched his face. "The beard suits you. You look the spit of Maric."

Alistair smiled distractedly at her, eyes moving towards Zevran.

"Morning. I thought Flo would be with you?"

"No, mi rey," replied the elf, frowning."I haven't seen her since I last saw you."

There was a brief, puzzled silence. Oghren squinted about the entrance hall, which was deserted save for a handful of servants.

"This feast don't seem very well attended," he said at last, brow furrowing. "Who did she invite?"

Alistair gave a helpless shrug, as Fergus and Finian glanced at one another in similar confusion.

"I don't know. She's been quite vague about the whole thing. Shall we check the great hall?"

A handful of minutes later, and both nobles and companions were staring with mild consternation into a shadowed and entirely empty hall. The hearths were unlit, the long tables deserted; the candelabras hanging in darkness overhead. The hall's only occupant was an old Mabari, greying in the muzzle, snoring beside a cobwebbed suit of armour.

"I don't understand," said Alistair, at last. "I know the feast was definitely happening today – the cooks have been preparing the food since Tuesday. The kitchens have been going all night."

"Could it be taking place outside?" suggested Finian, brushing against a wall tapestry and sneezing at the subsequent expulsion of dust. "In the gardens? It's sunny enough."

They gazed at one another in the shadowed hall, equally perplexed.

Eventually Zevran cleared his throat, the noise echoing up to the rafters overhead.

"My little peach does have quite the ravenous appetite," he said at last, at a loss for any other explanation. "Perhaps she has arrived, descended upon the feast like a horde of locusts, and it is all gone?"

There was a moment of silence as those present considered this possibility.

"I don't think she could eat that much," said Alistair, uncertainly. "I mean, I know she eats a lot, but- "

"Your Majesty, my lords!"

Guillaume had arrived behind them, looking slightly out of breath; a pink flush illuminating his tawny skin.

"I apologise, King Alistair. I meant to tell you earlier – the lady Cousland's feast is not being held within the palace!"

"She's not here?" Finian repeated, a furrow forming in the centre of his noble brow.

"Where's my wife?" the king chimed in, somewhat plaintively. "My future wife."

"I believe the lady is at her feast," continued the Royal Steward, quietly. "Which is being held down on the docks."

"The docks? With the fishermen?" Fergus asked, confused. "I suppose that makes sense."

"Not with the fishermen."

Wynne corrected the teyrn gently, the corner of her mouth turning upwards in a wry smile.

"With the refugees."

Horses were called for and brought quickly to the gravel forecourt before the great palace gates. The sun bore down on them brilliantly from above; not a single scrap of cloud marring the sky as midday approached.

They made good time through the city, Royal Guardsmen sent in advance to ensure that a path within the crowds was cleared. The people of Denerim, who had come onto the streets to welcome back the lady Cousland, now received further compensation with a glimpse of their popular young king.

Theirin, Theirin! the cry went up, and Alistair lifted a distracted hand to acknowledge the hails; preoccupied with thoughts of his former sister-warden.

Despite her grief for the loss of her spirits, the concern over the assassins, the isolation at Revanloch; Flora had not forgotten about the plight of the refugees, whom she and Alistair had seen every day during their residence at the Pearl. There were hundreds of them, from Loghain's ravaged teyrnir of Gwaren, from poor lost Lothering, from Cullen Rutherford's home-town of Honnleath. Their regional accents may have been different; but they all wore the same hollow and hopeless expression, the faces of those who had lost everything.

"We came down here a dozen times," Leonas was saying to Fergus, their horses abreast in the centre of the road. "So the lass could offer her mending services. Even in the days right before the battle."

"'Heeling here too-day (free)'" murmured Zevran, riding close behind. The elf recalled the clumsily painted sign that Flora had hung up on a bedsheet loaned from the Pearl, standing on a crate and offering her liberal talents to any who required them.

Denerim's docks lay at the eastern edge of the city; consisting of a dozen wooden jetties extending into the muddy green estuary. An eclectic collection of buildings were clustered on the dockside itself; whorehouses, warehouses and fish markets competed for space on the salt-stained boardwalk.

The old fish market – little more than a tiled roof perched upon crumbling stone arches – had been left as temporary shelter for the refugees. When Alistair had last been there, it was a forlorn and desperate place; with families huddled in miserable clumps around the remains of wooden stalls.

Now the sound of sizzling meat and chatter echoed about the stone arches, the hollow space filled with long tables that had been brought down from the palace and quickly assembled. Each surface was crowded with platters and dishes, jugs of ale wedged into any available space; vast cauldrons of stew and soup were stationed to one side. The head cook at the Royal Palace was directing several of his underlings as they carved meat from a pig precariously balanced on a makeshift spit.

The homeless families were gathered at the tables with plates piled high, speaking with mouths full as they conversed animatedly. Such was the level of chatter that Alistair's arrival was not immediately registered. Only when the Royal Guard flanked the entrance, did the news begin to spread like wildfire.

The king is here! King Alistair is here!

Those nearby dropped their forks and scrambled to stand, in mild panic. Alistair held up his hand, shaking his head and raising his voice so that it reverberated through the old market.

"Don't interrupt your meal on my account," he instructed, gesturing for them to remain seated. "We've come to join you."

"Sounds good to me," chimed in Oghren, who had his eye on a nearby pork pie.

So it followed that the most prominent nobles in Ferelden – including the Royal General and the teyrn of Highever - sat down on the benches amidst the common folk and began to gather food onto some hastily provided plates.

Meanwhile Alistair was scanning the old market like a hawk, the green veins in his irises standing out stark against the hazel. After a few moments, he caught sight of a splash of crimson in a far and unobtrusive corner. With a heart throbbing irrationally hard against his ribcage, the king made his way through the tables and free-standing cauldrons.

Flora was standing away from the crowds, deep in conversation with an auburn-headed man whose fingers were twisting nervously in his ragged sleeves. She was listening earnestly to the man's shy muttering, while simultaneously resting a grubby, copper-haired baby on her swollen belly. Teagan was standing close by, leaning against a pillar; bann flashed king a wry smile of greeting as Alistair neared.

"I can't believe haddock season starts so early down south," Flora breathed in wonder, shifting the infant expertly to her hip as it wriggled. "Fishing in Gwaren sounds very different. I wonder if the seawater is warmer?"

Alistair stopped abruptly in his tracks, mesmerised by the sight of his mistress with the widower's baby. The rational part of his mind reminded him that Flora had spent ten years in a tiny village; it made sense that she had helped to look after the younger children and was thus comfortable in their company.

Yet he had never seen her with any before, and her natural ease with the baby made his heart swell with affection in his chest. The infant made a snuffling noise, wrapping its fingers in her hair, and she kissed it tenderly on its plump little cheek.

"Flora," Alistair said quietly, and Flora startled, having been so immersed in conversation with the Gwaren fisherman that she had not noticed the king's arrival.

The widower froze in momentary panic, unsure how to respond. Flora carefully extracted her hair from the baby's clenched fist, tickling it under the chin before handing it back to its father.

Turning back to Alistair, Flora smiled up at him anxiously; hoping that he wasn't annoyed that she had neglected to inform him of her plans to relocate her feast to the docks. The king stepped forward, cupped her cheek in his hand and lifted her chin; gazing down into her solemn, earnest face.

"My sweet-hearted girl," he said softly after a moment, shaking his head. "This was meant to be your feast."

"Eh, I don't need a feast," Flora replied, with northern candour and a shrug of the shoulders. "I'm going to get fat enough by Kingsway – or Harvestmere - I ought not stuff my face with food."

The old market had fallen quiet behind them, those at the tables pausing with forks halfway their to mouths as they watched the king greet his mistress. More of Denerim's citizens had crowded in beneath the arches, curious and wide-eyed; always eager to catch another glimpse of their handsome new Theirin, and the girl who had ended the Blight.

Alistair made as though to kiss her, then felt the heat of several hundred eyes raising the hairs on the back of his neck. As though on cue, Eamon sidled out from a nearby pillar, lowering his voice to a murmur.

"Florence, they're waiting for you."

Flora grimaced, she had not expected to actually address the crowd. However, public speaking was something that she had grown reluctantly accustomed to over the months, and so she headed towards the auctioneer's block at the front of the market, judging it to be more stable than standing on a crate. The throngs parted to clear a path before her, hungry fingers still clutching pieces of cooked chicken and broth-soaked bread.

Alistair followed in her wake, overtaking Flora easily on the last few strides to offer her assistance onto the auctioneer's platform. There must have once existed a wooden scaffold or makeshift step; yet this had clearly been scavenged for fuel. In the absence of any stairs, Alistair lifted his mistress bodily up onto the raised stone plinth.

Flora looked out over the gathered people, her friends and companions blending in amidst the refugees, with the people of Denerim clustering on the fringes of the crowd. She caught sight of her brothers – their tall, russet-haired frames distinct – and half-smiled at them. Zevran was loitering near Finian; murmuring something quiet in her slender brother's ear. The elf looked up to meet her gaze, then blew her a kiss.

The crowd fell silent beneath Flora's pale Cousland stare; the cool, watercolour appraisal that her ancestors had used to hold Ferelden's wild north in check. Flora licked her lips - relatively certain that the baby had left a handful of apple sauce in her hair – and began to speak.

"I remember what it's like to be hungry," she began, quietly. "When I grew up – in Herring – there were some weeks when the catch was bad, and all we caught had to be sold. There were times when we cooked seaweed into a stew because there was nothing else to eat."

Flora hoped that the compassion in her voice made up for the haughty beauty of her face; which she resented and had no control over.

"This food doesn't in any way compensate for what's been lost," she continued, earnest and solemn. "It doesn't make up for the homes, the towns, the family that you've left behind. I've never been to Gwaren or Honnleath, but I... I have been to Lothering. I think of Lothering all the time. I had Lothering in my heart when I killed the Archdemon."

Flora paused for a moment, wondering at how clear poor, lost Lothering stood out in her mind; the village preserved with especial clarity despite featuring so fleetingly in her life.

"I just wanted to do something to help," she said at last, a raw echo to the words. "Since I can't mend you any more. I'm sorry that I can't mend you, I wish I could. I was useful when I had my spirits. I think – I don't really know what to do without them. I feel a bit useless, to be honest."

Flora half-smiled to take the edge from her northern frankness, but the candour in the words gleamed like pyrite in a river stream. Each phlegmatic cough she heard from the crowd cut her like a small, pernicious blade; as did each glimpse of a bandaged limb that she now had no hope of mending. To her horror, Flora felt tears prickling in the corners of her eyes.

Don't cry! You don't cry in public!

If you do cry, blame it on the little creature unbalancing you.

"Your Majesty!"

The cry rose first from the back of the market hall, thin and defiant.

Flora blinked in slight surprise, a faint line of confusion forming on her brow as the tears arrested themselves on her lashes.

"Aye! Your Majesty!"

Seconds later, the hail came again, louder this time and joined by several more voices. It continued to build upon itself, a dozen more voices joining with each repetition; swelling in volume and vigour until the words blurred together in a great roar of sound that rattled the roof tiles.

Your Majesty! Your Majesty! Your Majesty!

Flora had no idea what was going on, except that she was relatively certain she was now partially deaf. She stood on the auctioneer's platform, feeling incongruously as though she were for sale; and stared solemnly out at the cheering crowds.

What are you cheering me for? she thought, in mild bewilderment. I didn't make this food. I can't heal your coughs or that old man's broken arm.

Why are you calling me 'your majesty'?

Down on the market floor, Fergus nudged Alistair's elbow; a half-laugh emerging from his throat.

"You'd better get up there, Theirin," he murmured, eyebrows wedged in his hairline. "Or my little sister might unwittingly usurp your throne."

Alistair grinned, his face suffused with immeasurable pride. In a swift, effortless gesture he had climbed up onto the auctioneer's platform and put an arm around his best friend's waist, one hand spreading affectionately across her stomach.

"I adore you," he breathed in Flora's ear, wishing that they were alone.

Flora beamed, delighted, and the sight of the solemn young Cousland smiling for her king was enough to set off a fresh wave of approval from the crowd.

"Alistair," she whispered, grateful for his steadying arm about her waist. The smell of roast pig had been wafting up her nostrils for an hour, and the meaty aroma was enough to curdle her stomach.

"Yes, my love?"

"There's an Orlesian here. He's with Leliana."

"An Orlesian?" Alistair repeated, managing to convey incredulity through his smile. "Who is it?"

"Gosper."

"Who?!"

"Gosper De...Deshally. I don't know what he's here for. Leliana says that he's a duck."

"?!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: A DUC, Flora, not a duck!!
> 
> OK, so Flora hasn't exactly covered herself in glory so far in this sequel! By chapter 30 in the original story, she'd saved the Circle Tower, healed refugees in Lothering, defended Redcliffe…. all she's done so far, in this story, has been cry, brood and hang around in a monastery!
> 
> So I wanted to show her finally able to do something to help, something true to her nature that wasn't taken with the death of the Archdemon. In this case, hosting the feast for the refugees! Her best quality is her kindness, and that didn't go away with her spirits. As greedy as she is,
> 
> Lol, she doesn't really understand why people are chanting Your Majesty at her, though. Even the people of Denerim know by this point that Flora is going to be Alistair's Queen, hahaha


	30. A Proposal Of Marriage

Once they had returned to the Royal Palace, it became quickly apparent why Gaspard De Chalons had arrived two weeks early for Alistair's coronation.

The nobles met formally with the grand _duc _within the castle's most unashamedly _Fereldan_ audience chamber. There was not a single gilded curlicue or delicate mural to be seen on the windowless stone walls – they were carved with finely worked reliefs of Mabari and horses mid-hunt, the wooden beams overhead painted with old Alamarri patterns. A tapestry of Calenhad loomed above the receiving platform, eight foot high and nearly twelve in length; while a statue of the Rebel Queen dominated the chamber's opposite flank. Candles hung from the ceiling in wrought-iron rings, casting a flickering light onto the faces of those gathered below.

The Valmont soldiers were stationed at one side of the door, while the Theirin Royal Guard eyed them suspiciously from the other. The grand _duc_ stood in the centre of the room, his stance straight-backed and militaristic despite his advancing years.

Alistair was seated alongside his advisers, his chair raised a fraction higher to denote his status. The crown – which he had removed to eat amongst the refugees – was now placed firmly back atop his head. Eamon, Leonas and Fergus sat about him with varying degrees of suspicion writ plain across their faces.

Teagan was leaning against the far wall, head tilted towards the newly invested Arl of Amaranthine. Finian had relayed all that he had learnt about the grand _duc_ during his five years immersed within Orlesian society; and none of it was particularly palatable.

"You're a fortnight early," Alistair stated flatly, leaning forward and disposing with pleasantries. "What's your business within Ferelden?"

_And with the mother of my child, _he added grimly to himself.

"You can take off that mask, Orlesian," Leonas interjected, his voice gruff. "This isn't Halamshiral. We don't _speak through flowers_ here."

Gaspard de Chalons acquiesced without comment, removing the silvered domino. Beneath was the bitter, weathered face of a man who had survived decades of the Orlesian _Great Game, _only to emerge with second prize.

"A force of habit," he murmured, soft and amused. "No offence intended, my lords. But my business is with the Couslands – the young lady is not here, and I am loathe to start without her."

Alistair narrowed his eyes, feeling a small pulse of anger form in the back of his skull. Beside him, he felt the teyrn bristle in his seat.

"As you said: Florence is _young. _In fact, my sister has not even reached the age of voting majority," Fergus interjected, stiffly. "Any dealings with her will go through _me."_

"_Comme vous voulez," _replied the grand _duc_, a faint smile tugging his thin lips at the mention of Ferelden's 'primitive' politics. "I have come to throw my hat into the ring."

"Speak plain and not in guise, man!" Teagan called out irritably from the wall, tiring of the Orlesian's wordplay.

"_Bien sûr. _I wish to sign my name to the list of the lady Florence's suitors."

There was a long and charged silence, during which Alistair felt his blood pressure increase in gradual increments.

"What do you mean: _list of suitors?" _he half-growled, visibly struggling to keep a grip on civility. "What bloody list?"

The grand _duc_ raised an eyebrow, taking a gulp from an ornately carved hip flask.

"As far as I'm aware, there are at least a half-dozen noble families within Thedas who have put forward propositions of marriage. The Vaels of Starkhaven are looking for a match for their eldest son. The Pentaghasts of Nevarre have made enquiries. There was even a suit from a Tevinter magister, although I believe they redacted their offer on hearing of the lady's severance from the Fade."

Alistair sat in stunned silence for a moment, mouth slightly parted. Fergus cleared his throat, a scowl ingrained deep within his handsome, prematurely lined face.

"Those proposals all went to me," he stated, bluntly. "I didn't care to pass them on to my sister. She's not leaving Ferelden. Neither the Landsmeet nor the people would countenance it."

There was a murmur of general agreement amongst those present.

"Floss wouldn't survive in Nevarre," Finian whispered conspiratorially in Teagan's ear. "She can barely cope with the _Fereldan_ sun. Anyway, you know this _duc's _last wife was murdered?"

Alistair interjected then, his face contorted in naked outrage.

"But she's carrying _my child_," he retorted, the words harbouring a vein of distinct Theirin threat. "She's my- my-"

The grand _duc_ gave a shrug, the silvered epaulet on his shoulder catching the torchlight.

"To raise a king's child would be no burden," he replied; and almost said more before changing his mind.

"No, I imagine it'd be quite the strategic asset," retorted Eamon, quick as a whip. "Especially for one in your position, with a claim to the Sunburst Throne."

Alistair, struck dumb at the prospect of his unborn baby becoming a hapless pawn in the Orlesian _Great Game_, gaped; a rush of angry colour flooding his cheeks. Abruptly, he shoved back his chair with a scrape across the flagstones, a retort emerging as a bellow.

"_Enough!"_

The prospective bride herself had not joined them in the audience chamber due to a sudden and demanding burst of nausea, mostly likely brought on by inhaling the smell of roasted meats for several hours. On return to the Royal Palace, Flora had turned an unappealing shade of green, and been quickly whisked away into a servant's back corridor by Wynne and Leliana.

Zevran sauntered after them, pulling the door closed as Flora huddled miserably over a convenient bucket. She was sick three times in a row, expelling the contents of her stomach in spectacular fashion. Leliana charmed a wide-eyed servant into fetching some water and fruit, while Wynne gripped Flora's hair and patted her back with business-like affection.

"There, there- " the senior enchanter murmured, softly. Long lost memories of being in a similar position rose to the surface of Wynne's mind, like flotsam cast onto the seashore.

"This baby _hates_ me!" Flora croaked, sitting back on the flagstones and wiping at her watering eyes. With the departure of her spirits, she was no longer able to self-soothe the raw lining of her throat.

Wynne stood to retrieve the water and fruit, pausing to exchange a few quiet words with Leliana. Zevran slid down to take her place, reaching out to push a strand of sweaty hair gently away from Flora's forehead.

"Don't talk nonsense, _mi corazón. _How could the baby hate you? It is an impossible thing, _abejorro."_

Flora made a little unhappy gesture with her mouth, hunching her shoulders.

"Everyone told me the sickness would be over by now," she complained, taking the water pouch gratefully from Wynne and gulping down several mouthfuls. "But, _no. _The little toad is not content with poking me in the kidneys all night, it has to punish me for sampling my own feast!"

"You can't call the baby a _little toad!"_ Leliana chided, reproachfully.

The baby also did not appreciate being called a toad. Flora opened her mouth to reply, then went several degrees paler and grabbed for the bucket once again.

Zevran grimaced, reaching to clamp her hair in a restraining fist.

"Get it all up, lovely," he murmured, rubbing his thumb into the base of her neck.

Flora proceeded to do so, clutching the edge of the bucket so hard that her knuckles went white. Eventually, her stomach had nothing left to yield and so went dormant; producing only the occasional ominous rumble. Feeling rather sorry for herself, Flora sat back on the cold tiles and sniffed. It hurt to swallow – the lining of her throat was inflamed from bile – and there was a foul taste in the back of her mouth.

"Finish the water," Wynne instructed, and Flora followed the command, grimacing as her sore throat muscles contracted around the liquid. "You need to get into that audience with the grand _duc_. Have you been sick down your tunic?"

"No, wait- _yes."_

Leliana was commandeered to fetch something clean from the Royal chamber, while Wynne busied herself refilling the water pouch.

Zevran cast an expert eye over the tray of fruit, then made a shrewd choice. He offered the spherical yellow fruit to Flora without comment; as he had hoped, she was distracted from her own self-pity.

"Oh," she croaked, entranced. "It's a _lemon. _I dressed up as one of these for a Satinalia party at the Circle."

"I remember you telling me, _mi florita," _the elf crooned, watching Flora work her finger beneath the rind. "Bite - it'll chase the sourness away."

Flora took a large bite, then almost spat it out; the corners of her mouth turning down. She turned a wide, accusatory gaze on Zevran, who couldn't hold back a chortle of laughter.

"I used to eat lemons raw all the time as a child," he told her, fighting to regain a solemn expression as she eyed him malevolently. "Like a mouthful of pure Antivan sunshine."

Flora swallowed, grudgingly admitting to herself that the elf had a point; the stale taste of bile had been thoroughly purged from her mouth.

Leliana appeared with one of Alistair's shirts, her brow furrowed with intense dissatisfaction.

"You have _no clothes, _Florence! I believed your meagre allowance at Revanloch to be a fraction of your wardrobe, but now I realise the truth – you have _nothing to wear. _This is a situation that will need to be remedied once you return to the city!"

Flora grunted, squirming her way out of the navy tunic and waving her arms for Alistair's garment.

"In Herring, I wore the same 'outfit' _every single day," _she retorted, buttoning the linen shirt over her breasts. "And it only got washed when it rained, or if I fell in the sea."

"_Aah! _The stuff of nightmares, _ma petite."_

Emerging back into the public passages of the palace, Leliana led the way towards the audience chamber she believed was being used to hear the proposition of Gaspard de Challons.

"It's the most _Fereldan _of the receiving rooms," she explained over her shoulder, guiding them expertly down a corridor lined with dust-covered suits of armour. "Mabari painted on the walls, sculptures of horses; a giant depiction of the Rebel Queen. The perfect chamber to meet with a _grand duc _of Orlais."

"Did he tell you what he wanted- " Flora began, then cut herself off abruptly as Alistair's angry bellow echoed about the passage, the sound emanating from a nearby set of double doors.

"_Enough!"_

Flora blinked, head swivelling to her three companions in turn. Wynne looked bemused while Zevran seemed more intrigued; yet Leliana did not appear to be taken aback by the king's sudden outburst.

_What, _Flora mouthed at the bard, her eyes wide. _Whaaat-_

But Leliana's gaze slid away like a jellyfish, and then the guards were pushing open the doors into the audience chamber and it was too late to ask why Alistair had sounded so angry.

"The lady Cousland," announced the steward dutifully at the entrance.

Flora blinked against the torch-lit brightness, which was in stark contrast to the gloomy corridor. When she managed to focus on the figures in the room, the grand _duc_ was standing – appearing somewhat amused – in the centre of the chamber, while her brothers and the other nobles were seated at the far side. Alistair had already risen to his feet, with lip curled and a flush heating his olive skin.

"Ah, _la dame _herself," murmured Gaspard, turning and bowing with the consummate finesse of a lifelong courtier. "Shall we ask the lady what she wishes?"

Flora did not reply, her eyes moving from the Orlesian noble across to where Alistair stood, face contorted in anger. The grand _duc_, deciding to take matters into his own hands, strode across the chamber to face Flora directly.

"This is my offer," he said, bluntly. "Verchiel is in need of a new _duchesse._ You are a Cousland; I a Valmont. It would be an profitable alliance for us both."

Flora had a sudden, peculiar sense of _déjà vu. _For a moment she was standing back in the garden at South Reach, and Arl Leonas was making a similar proposition; so discomfited that he was barely able to look her in the eye.

_But he was doing it to protect me, because he was a friend of Bryce Cousland, and felt responsible for my safety. Such a marriage would have brought him no advantage; I was still a mage when he proposed._

_This Orlesian seeks my hand just for his own gain!_

"My cousin Celene has been childless for a decade, and as it stands – I am her only surviving relative," continued Gaspard de Chalons, persuasively. "It would be logical for her to name this babe as heir, if we were married. You possess one of the oldest pedigrees of Ferelden; I am a Valmont."

_One of the few quality bloodlines, _his tone implied.

"And you would control a child with a claim to both the Fereldan and Orlesian thrones," pointed out Eamon, his lip curling.

Flora heard a low rumble of anger, sensing that the others were preparing to rally to her defence. Alistair looked as though he had stayed out in the sun for too long – his entire head was a shade of furious crimson.

Yet, the thought of their baby becoming entangled in the complex skeins of Orlesian politics, made the blood boil in her veins like an overlooked cauldron.

_I kept you safe from the Archdemon, my little toad, _Flora thought to herself, determinedly. _I can keep you safe from this man's ambition._

"Usually when people are trying to charm me, they praise my hair, or my eyes," she replied, grateful for her flat Herring intonation and the solemn ambiguity of her features. "They don't usually praise my _blood."_

"Lady Cousland, you know full-well that you're a beautiful girl," replied the grand _duc_, lightning quick. "Surely, there's no need for me to reaffirm that?"

"Hm," retorted Flora, already bored of this arrogant noble and his presumptions. "Do your weddings take place in counting-houses, rather than Chantries?"

The _duc_ narrowed his eyes, trying to divine the purpose of Flora's question.

"You would be celebrated within Val Royeaux," he continued, in the stilted tones of a man not used to cajoling. "And a lifestyle far beyond what you could imagine awaits you in the Hall of Mirrors at Verchiel. Your every desire would be catered for."

Flora paused, her stare wide and accusatory, feeling the little creature nudge against the base of her spine.

"But, I'm _Fereldan_," she countered, quiet and firm. "And this baby is Fereldan. We aren't going anywhere."

Flora could almost hear Alistair's exhalation of relief from across the room. She wanted to pull an incredulous face at him: _as if she would ever have said yes!_

"Anyway," she continued hastily, feeling her stomach give an ominous lurch. "I would never even _consider_ a proposal unless it was done in true, traditional Herring style."

The grand _duc _narrowed his pale, clever Valmont eyes thoughtfully, scrutinising her features as though he hoped to learn something. Yet Flora's face was as solemn and ambiguous as any Orlesian mask; and he could glean nothing from it.

"A shame," he murmured, softly. "Our union might have achieved great things."

Flora, worried that she was about to be sick once again, decided to make a rapid exit.

"Sorry, Duck Gosper," she said, not unkindly. "Your... _rod_ isn't big enough to catch a fish such as me."

Feeling her guts churn, Flora turned on her heel and sailed out of the room; wanting to put as much space between herself and the audience chamber as possible. Finian and Zevran followed in her wake; the elf openly snickering.

_Oh shit, _Alistair thought to himself, as Eamon cleared his throat and stood up. _What's a Herring-style proposal again? I'm sure Flo has mentioned it before._

"The lady Cousland has spoken her mind," the arl of Redcliffe murmured, trying not to laugh. "You are permitted to stay within Denerim until the coronation, _grand duc."_

Gaspard scowled, lifting the silver mask and placing it firmly back on his unhappy features.

"That girl is as obstinate as Celene," he muttered to himself, darkly. "_Merci _for the audience, Your Majesty."

Alistair grunted, frantically searching his memory for any mention that Flora had made of Herring proposals. He rose to his feet, barely sparing a further glance towards the Orlesian duke; head turned towards the corridor where his mistress had headed.

Fergus put up a hand to intercept the king, the teyrn's face caught between reproach and wry amusement. He lowered his voice, ensuring that the grand _duc_ could not hear.

"Alistair, you _are_ going to propose to my sister before the wedding day itself, aren't you? I understand that you wanted to give her time to grieve for her spirits, but… it's less than a fortnight away now."

"You're northern. Do _you _know what these 'Herring proposal traditions' are?" Alistair retorted, hoping that Flora had been referring to a _regional_ – rather than strictly local – custom.

Unfortunately, Fergus looked blank; raising a shoulder in a shrug.

"Sorry. I gave Oriana a ring and a gold necklace when we were betrothed, but I doubt that's a practice shared by the villagers of Herring."

Alistair grimaced, feeling a bead of nervous sweat break out on his forehead as he straightened.

"Maker's Breath. I'd better go and find her dad tomorrow. I hope he's still in the city!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Haha, I bet you thought it was Alistair finally proposing to Flo…. NOPE!
> 
> OOOH, this was a fun chapter though! I love anything to do with politics and proposals, haha. It reminds me of work! But I love my job, lol, so it's understandable. So the news has spread across Ferelden that the new Hero of Ferelden is an unmarried Cousland daughter, which is literally marriage market material! Even the fact that she's pregnant with a king's child isn't necessarily a bad thing – it proves that she's fertile, and the baby could be used as a valuable bargaining chip. Of course Fergus, knowing that Flora isn't going to agree to any of these proposals, doesn't even bother to relate them to her. But Alistair is Not Happy, lol.
> 
> Flora did end up telling Alistair what a Herring-style proposal was, all the way back in TLATL lol
> 
> Gaspard's wife was murdered in a family power struggle! There was no date for that event on the DA wikia page, so hopefully it's not too far out of canon for him to propose to Flo within this time period.


	31. In The Pursuit Of Wanton Pleasure!

In the shadowy servant's corridor Flora sunk down against the wall, looking distinctly green about the gills. Finian was pacing back and forth before her, flapping his hands and offering unhelpful medical advice. His silhouette lurched erratically across the unplastered wall, making Flora feel even more nauseous.

"Quick, put your head between your legs!"

"Alright," said Flora, obediently bowing her face between her knees. "Uergh."

"Does that feel any better?"

"Noooo."

"Perhaps you need someone to put _their_ head between your legs," Zevran volunteered, slyly. _"I volunteer!"_

Finian swatted the elf on the elbow, crouching down beside Flora as she slumped unceremoniously on the flagstones.

"I think the head between the legs might be for dizziness, actually. Do you feel dizzy, Floss?"

Flora shook her head, taking several gulps of musty air while talking her stomach down from the metaphorical ledge.

_You don't need to do this. There's nothing left to expel. You've already punished me for daring to eat something at my own feast._

To make herself feel better, Flora summoned a mental image of Gaspard's startled face, open-mouthed like a fish laid out on the sand. This had a palliative effect on her nausea, and - to her relief - she felt her stomach settle down once again.

The next moment, candlelight spilled into the corridor as Alistair manoeuvred his way impatiently inside.

"I didn't even know this corridor existed. It's so _dark. _Where are you, baby?"

"Down here," said Flora, from somewhere near his feet. "By your boots."

Alistair squinted, his eyes gradually adjusting to the gloom. As he focused on her slumped against the wall, his face crumpled in sympathy.

"Oh, my love," he breathed, crouching down before her on the dusty tiles. The crown slipped forward and he removed it impatiently, setting the golden band on the flagstones at her feet. "Why are you in here? This is a servants' passage_."_

"I thought I was going to be sick," she replied, leaning forward into his embrace and winding her arms around his neck. "I didn't want to be sick on Gosper's silky shoes. I'm not sure what diplomatic message that would send. Not a good one." 

"And on top of the '_your rod isn't big enough to catch me' _comment," Finian murmured in Zevran's ear, archly. "It might start another Orlo-Fereldan war."

Alistair slid his fingers around the back of his best friend's head, holding it against his shoulder.

"What can I do to help, darling?" he murmured, rubbing his hand up and down the length of Flora's narrow back; feeling the hard ridges of her spine. "Anything at all, just say the word."

"Keep doing that," she mumbled into his tunic, pressing her cheek against the fine crimson velvet. "Feels nice."

Alistair dropped a kiss to the top of Flora's head, feeling her yawn into his shoulder as he slid his palm back up to the nape of her neck.

"You're wearing my tunic," he murmured, fingering the collar. "I've missed seeing you in them, Lo. You _lived _in my shirts when we were journeying."

"Mm," she replied, inhaling his familiar, masculine scent. "Leliana doesn't think I have enough clothes. She kept saying I'd need to get a new _dress_ very soon. She was mysterious."

Alistair grimly resolved that he would go and find Pel – Flora's fisherman-father – the very next morning, and question him about the ominous-sounding _Herring-style proposal._

"Sweetheart, I wish you would stay here tonight," he said, instead. "I can't see any reason for you to stay at Revanloch another week. We have the Divine's letter, the Landsmeet has approved it already. _I_ want you back with me."

Flora considered this longingly, the urge to acquiesce overwhelming.

_No more damp, draughty, overcrowded chamber._

_No more Templars watching my every move._

"I think I should stay at the monastery," she said reluctantly, and Alistair's mouth turned down as he heard the rejection in her tone.

"But?"

"You ought to do as you said," Flora continued, letting her finger run down the collar of his tunic. "You said I'd be there for a month. It's only been three weeks. You ought to keep your word, since … since you're so new on the throne. Even about something like this."

Finian let out a soft grunt of confirmation; he could see the logic in his sister's argument.

"She's right, Alistair."

Alistair grimaced, clutching her a fraction more tightly against his chest. Flora wound her fingers in his collar, brushing her thumb over the copper-gold hair curling at the nape of his neck.

"I just miss you," he said, slightly plaintively. "I don't sleep well without you in my arms. I wake a thousand times a night."

"I miss you too," Flora whispered, tracing the strong band of sinew in his neck down to his throat. His collarbone stood out against the taut, defined bulk of his chest; the velvet garb of a king would never fit him as well as a suit of armour. "I miss being in bed with you. It's been _ages."_

She shot him a _look_ beneath her eyelashes, curling her fingers more persuasively into the velvet collar of his tunic. Alistair's irises darkened, feeling the first tendrils of lust sprouting in his gut. He knew that _look_ all too well; it had led him into empty stables at South Reach and behind trees in the Brecilian Forest, it had tempted him into violating the hallowed space of the Chantry. Flora's clear seawater eyes, dark-lashed and limpid, communicated her wanton urges far more eloquently than her Herring-shaped vocabulary. They misted over with desire like a humid summer rain; pupils dark and hot as coals.

"It's been... twenty eight days," he replied, throatily. "Not that… not that I've been counting."

"Twenty eight days since what?" asked Finian cluelessly, averting his eyes as Alistair dropped his mouth to the hollow of Flora's throat "Oh, for Maker's sake- _really?!"_

Alistair raised his head and cast a heavy-lidded glance around the narrow corridor. Intended for servants, it was gloomy and ill-kept, with cobwebs decorating the ceiling beams. More importantly, it was _private._

"Finn, Zev," he instructed, words blurring together with desire. "Find somewhere else to be."

"For the love of Andraste!" Finian, eyes bulging, made a vain attempt at protest. "You can't rut my little sister in a _servant's passage!_ Why not at least take her up to the bedchamber?!"

"No time," Alistair retorted, unbuttoning his breeches with swift, desirous fingers. "I just heard the sixth bell - the Templars will be here soon."

"Let's give the king and his mistress some privacy, _Finían_," Zevran purred, smiling very widely to hide the raw edge in his tone. "Come on. Have fun, _amores. I _cannot promise that I will resist the temptation to _peek."_

Alistair let out a grunt, more than aware of the elf's voyeuristic tendencies. Finian fled up the corridor with a squawk of horror, vanishing into the depths of the labyrinth used by the servants to navigate the palace unseen. Far more nonchalantly, Zevran sauntered in the young arl's wake. Being in masochistic mood, instead of following Finian into the safety of an audience chamber, he slid into a convenient recess half-hidden by shadow. Leaning back against the wall, the elf pricked his ears back towards the gloomy corridor; heart racing uncharacteristically in his chest.

Meanwhile, Alistair was enthralled by the new inches added to his best friend's bust. He slid his hands inside the unbuttoned shirt to cup her naked breasts, gently weighing them against calloused palms.

"Is it selfish that I don't want to share these with the baby?" the king murmured, letting his thumbs brush lightly over her nipples.

"Yes," she replied, reaching down to pull impatiently at the fastening of his belt. "Hurry, hurry- "

Alistair let out an involuntary groan at her unashamed desire; single-minded need transforming his kind, handsome face into something primitive. His mouth dropped to Flora's neck, working the delicate skin with teeth and tongue until she cried out in frustration.

"_Alistaaaair- "_

He growled against the softness of Flora's throat, licking a long stripe down to her collarbone as his fingers began to inch her leggings down around her thighs. As he did so, his wrist inadvertently nudged against the swollen swell of her stomach. A clear ray of affection broke through the lust saturating Alistair's features, quickly accompanied by a matching streak of worry.

"It's not going to hurt the baby, is it? Us doing… _this?"_

"Nooo," mumbled Flora, her hand working busily inside his own breeches. "I don't see how."

"Is it going to hurt _you?"_ Alistair continued, anxiously. "It's been _ages."_

"Dunno. Don't care."

She let out an impatient little grunt, successfully freeing his rigid length from the confines of the leather.

"I don't want to hurt you," he repeated, anxiously. "Maybe I should just- _Maker's Breath!"_

This strangled blasphemy was in response to his best friend repositioning herself – somewhat awkwardly, considering her weighted belly and sore knee – so that she could take him in her mouth. Alistair let his head drop back against the wall, fingers clenching involuntary fistfuls of her hair. Something raw and heated was burning in the pit of his belly; a desire which she was stoking unashamedly with the workings of her tongue. He opened his mouth to speak but a strangled croak emerged, his pelvis thrusting involuntarily against her yielding lips.

"Flora," he managed to mutter at last, her name emerging hoarse and peculiar. "Sweetheart- "

Abandoning coherency, the king let out a moan; reaching with clumsy fingers to slide the shirt from her shoulders. Flora paused to breathe, secretly delighted at the effect of her mouth's purposeful exertions.

_I thought I might have forgotten how to do this._

_Well, we did spend enough time practising during that month at South Reach. There wasn't really anything else to do –_

Flora smiled up at Alistair and he flashed her a dazed grin, the cool olive tone of his cheeks warmed by an uncharacteristic flush. As she took him in her mouth once again, Alistair let his hand rest on the crown of her tangled head, gentle and affectionate.

Just then, in sonorous tones from the other side of the door, came the unmistakeable chiding of Chanter Devotia.

"'_And thus with creeping indolence did the sinners while away their hours; spurning the Maker in the pursuit of WANTON PLEASURE!'"_

Flora almost choked, recoiling from him as Alistair let out a strangled curse.

"Oh, for fuck's sake- "

There came a loud, pointed cough from the audience chamber. Flora sat back on her haunches and gazed at Alistair in mild irritation; he stared back at her, eyes narrowed.

"They can't tell us off," he said, slightly uncertainly. "Can they? I'm the _king."_

For a moment they blinked at one another through the gloom of the servant's passage; a stable-boy and a fisher-girl who – through a series of inexplicably strange circumstances - had somehow ended up in the Royal Palace.

There came an experimental rattle at the door knob, and Alistair swore under his breath; reaching down to tuck himself back into his breeches.

"_Fine_. To be continued, darling."

As Flora shrugged her arms into her shirt, Zevran manifested from the shadows and made them both jump.

"Maker's Breath!" hissed Alistair, using the crown to flatten down his rumpled hair. "Why don't you just join in next time? You were close enough!"

"Don't tempt me, _mi amor," _purred the elf, buttoning Flora's shirt from the bottom while she started from the top. "I'm only sorry that you were so _rudely_ interrupted."

Flora raked her fingers through her own tangled locks in an attempt to calm them.

"We'll just say that I felt poorly and Alistair was looking after me," she said, hopefully. "Do you think they'd believe us? Do I look sickly?"

"You look as though you've just been bedded, _mi sirenita," _replied the elf honestly, casting an eye over her flushed cheeks and swollen lips.

"Didn't even get that far," grumbled Flora, reaching up to adjust the angle of the crown on Alistair's head. "Oh well, let's just get this over with."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol foiled again! I promise they will get it on one of these days, haha. Finian's basically lost forever in the maze of servants' passages now lol


	32. Grey Warden Oghren

Like stern parents collecting a recalcitrant youth from the city guard's custody; Knight-Captain Gannorn and Chanter Devotia escorted Flora from the castle with expressions of mutual disapproval. The Chanter had offered a few choice excepts from her limited source material – mostly focusing on sinners who fell victim to _lusty urges _– while Gannorn had asked (with a straight face) whether there were no bedchambers fit for purpose within the Royal Palace.

The sun was just setting as they rode along the cliff top, casting lazy tendrils of ochre and apricot across the green expanse of the Amaranthine Ocean. Revanloch monastery hunched like a crow on its low, rocky promontory; dark basalt towers standing out in stark contrast against the pastel twilight.

Flora, who was riding on Chanter Devotia's saddle, found the Templar's quiet, disapproving murmurs oddly soothing. Before they had begun to ascend the low gravelled path that led up to the monastery's main gates, she had fallen asleep; head against the officer's breastplate.

Chanter Devotia had looked down at her silently, the corners of her mouth pulling taut. When the stable boys came scampering out to take their horses, she quietened them with a ferocious _ssh!, _her pale violet eyes flashing behind her helm. Knight-Captain Gannorn reached up wordlessly to receive the yawning Flora; she let herself be transferred from one officer to another as readily as a sleepy child.

Without exchanging more than a few choice words, the two Templars manoeuvred their snoring charge up to the guest chamber. Once Flora had been deposited onto the bed – with exceptional care, considering the precious cargo she carried – Knight-Captain Gannorn went to draw the curtains while Chanter Devotia prepared the bedroll before the door.

The night drew in, close and unusually humid, the stars lighting one by one like distant lanterns in the heavens. Flora, worn out by the long day, snored contentedly; lost in soft and dreamless sleep. The Templars watched over her in staggered intervals, their purpose not to watch for any hint of magic – it had long become apparent that Flora's Fade connection was severed – but out of sheer curiosity.

When Flora had first arrived at Revanloch, it had been hard for them to reconcile this sulking adolescent with the great string of titles that she bore – _Hero of Ferelden, Warden-Commander, Ender of the Fifth Blight, Dragonslayer. _They had not been impressed by her immaturity or her recklessness; and wondered at her illiteracy and lack of education. They had also found her grief at the loss of her spirits entirely perplexing – why would one _mourn _the loss of their magehood?

Now, although neither one would dare to admit it, the Templars had become oddly fond of their young charge. They had watched Florence Cousland near-incessantly for the past three weeks; and had found in her many admirable qualities to balance out their unfavourable first impression. She was unfailingly polite to the monastery servants, and had an uncanny knack of remembering their names. She laboured away for hours each day in an effort to improve her poor literacy; stubborn in the face of her own ignorance. Even Knight-Captain Gannorn had to admit to himself that this assignment had been a welcome change from escorting pilgrims across the Anderfels.

In the last days of Justinian, Flora received a most unexpected visitor at the monastery. With help from her Templars, she had dragged the small table into the shade within the inner courtyard. Whilst the bard positioned herself tactically in the only patch of light and warmth within Revanloch; Flora huddled near the apex of two conjoining walls, aware that the summer sun wrought havoc on her pale skin.

"It's not natural for the sky to look like this," she said at last mid-afternoon, abandoning her writing and squinting upwards with a look of distinct suspicion.

Leliana, who had rolled up her Chantry robe sleeves and was draped horizontally atop a long planter, turned her head and frowned.

"What do you mean, _ma petite?"_

Flora jabbed a finger upwards as the bard returned to a sitting position, stretching herself like a cat.

"Look how... _blue _it is," she said, indignantly. "Blue and cheerful. There's no cloud. In Herring, there was _always _cloud. I thought the sky was naturally grey until I moved south to the Circle."

Rising elegantly to her feet, Leliana drifted across the courtyard and took a seat at the table beside Flora; pulling over the scrawled sentences to correct them.

"In the south and the east, these skies are quite normal in the summer," the bard reassured, a slight crease forming on her forehead as she tried to decipher Flora's unintelligible text. _"Ma crevette, _I do not understand what this word is meant to say?"

"_Indubitably."_

Leliana's eyebrows shot into her hairline as she stared at the tangle of consonants.

"So you have attempted to write, '_I love fish, indubitably'_? Don't run before you can walk, _ma chérie. _Let's concentrate on spelling the basics correctly before we get too _ambitious, _hm?"

Flora blinked in dismay. "What did I get wrong from the first bit?"

"_L-o-v-e. _Not l-u-v!"

"Oh." The Cousland drooped for a moment and then perked up again, casting her eyes once more towards the sun. "What's Orlais like in summertime?"

Leliana let out a little sigh, leaning back to finger the wilting leaves of a nearby pot-plant.

"Unmatched in beauty," she murmured, softly. "I remember travelling through the countryside alongside Lake Celestine, when the _pasque _flowers were just beginning to bloom. They sprouted in such abundance that they had overtaken the path, and we had to walk waist-high through lavender and clumps of gentian. The _smell, _you cannot imagine – even those flowers that lay trodden underfoot had been dried by the sun, so that each step brought forth the most delicious aroma. And the skies overhead were not simply blue, they were _aquamarine."_

"Aqua-what?"

"Aquamarine. There is nothing within Ferelden that can compare."

"Oh," replied Flora, thoughtfully. "Well, it sounds very nice."

"I will have some lavender bushes imported from _Montsimmard, ma petite, _to be grown in the Royal Palace. The smell is meant to help babies sleep; Orlesian _mamas_ hang clumps of it in their nurseries."

"Thank you!"

"_De rien_, _mon chaton."_

"Derry-ann," repeated Flora, wistfully. "_Derryann_. I wish I could speak two languages, you're so _clever_."

Leliana smiled, her teeth white against skin rapidly bronzing in the sunlight.

"Perhaps focus on becoming adept with the King's Tongue first, eh, _ma fleur?"_

"From what I've heard in the taverns of Denerim, Florence Cousland is _already_ fluent in the _King's Tongue!"_

The comment was delivered in a thick and immediately recognisable brogue; and Flora's face broke into a beam. Pushing back her chair, she rose to greet the dwarf as he strolled across the cobbles.

"Oghren!"

"Eh, don't get up, lassie!"

Flora obediently sat, leaning forward to peck Oghren's cheek as he bent down expectantly. She was delighted to see him in what seemed to be excellent health and spirits – his eyes were sparkling and unclouded, there was no stench of alcohol about his person. His leathers, although crumpled, seemed to be relatively clean.

"You look well," Flora said, irrationally proud of her dwarven companion.

Oghren grinned, his eyes roaming unashamedly over her figure.

"And _you've_ got quite the beer belly on you, princess. How many months we at now?"

Flora snorted, looking down at the swell of her stomach as it stretched out the navy lambswool of her tunic.

"Six," she said after a moment, slightly vaguely. "I think."

"It _is _six," called Leliana from across the courtyard; having relocated herself to a sunnier spot. "And you're right, Oghren. It's going to be a big, _strong_ baby when it's born."

Flora immediately scowled as the dwarf cackled, clapping a reassuring hand onto her non-bound knee.

"Good luck! You'll be fine, you're a sturdy little maid. Anyway- "

Oghren took a deep breath, ginger whiskers quivering. Flora shot him a slightly curious look, wondering at the uncharacteristic apprehension on her companion's florid face.

"The reason why I'm here, is that… well. I got somethin' to tell you."

Flora blinked at these portentous words, fiddling with the gold Cousland ring on her little finger.

"Before yeh and _Prince Charming _came to Orzammar, I spent… a _long _time not doin' anythin' in particular. Became acquainted with a lot of tavern floors, but tha's about it. Then… well. I joined yeh both on this crazy journey, didn't I? Gave my life a bit of _meanin'."_

The dwarf nodded as though to himself, one thick thumb running absentmindedly across the knotted wooden surface of the table.

"Anyway, now the Blight's over… I don't want to go back to tha' old life, you know? So I- I got an idea. An' don't try and talk me out of it, my mind is made up."

Across the courtyard, the bard's ears pricked and she sat up, curiosity piqued. Flora stared at Oghren with increasing trepidation, feeling a small knot of anxiety form at the bottom of her belly.

"So I thought I might… join the Grey Wardens," the dwarf said, his tone nonchalant but his eyes steady and purposeful. "Keep on fightin' the good fight against the Darkspawn, now that you an' the king have retired. Reckon they'll need a few more soldiers."

The knot of anxiety solidified into a hard lump of fear in Flora's throat, sudden and irrational. A memory ignited in the back of her mind; Daveth choking on a froth of Darkspawn ichor at his own failed Joining.

The canny dwarf spotted the flicker of worry, and sought to offer some jovial reassurance.

"I know there's a risk. But, far as I can see, the alternative is endin' up a bloat-bag of booze on a tavern floor in ten years. And we dwarves _know _the Darkspawn, we've been fightin' 'em for years."

Flora remembered how Oghren had volunteered to keep vigil over Riordan's body, how he had stood stiff and straight-backed alongside the Orlesian Warden-Commander, head held high. Now, the dwarf looked at her with mild apprehension; trying hard not to show how much he desired her approval.

Swallowing her nerves, Flora smiled back at him, reaching out to rest her fingers on his arm.

"I think that the Wardens will be lucky to have a warrior of your strength and bravery," she replied, earnestly.

Oghren grinned at her, cheeks flushing a deep pink that clashed with the lurid ginger of his moustache.

"I'll give the Darkspawn a thing or two to think about!" he continued, gleefully. "I'll happily introduce 'em to the sharp end of my ax."

"Will you travel to Vigil's Keep to join the Order?" Leliana called, rolling up her sleeves to let her arms catch the sun.

"I wrote to Loghain," replied Oghren, then amended his statement. "Well, I got Wynne to write, askin' what would be best. Turns out the new Warden-Commander is comin' down for Alistair's coronation next week; gonna do some recruitment in the city at the same time."

Flora leaned forward, impulsively reaching her arms around the dwarf's broad frame to embrace him. Oghren patted her gently on the back, a grin spreading behind his thick moustache.

"Your tits have _definitely _gotten bigger, queenie."

Leliana, from across the courtyard, let out a little hiss of disapproval.

"You're as bad as Zevran, dwarf! _Worse, _actually; because at least he would try and be _poetic _in his lechery."

The dwarf snickered unrepentantly as Flora withdrew, tapping his fingers against the mottled wood of the tabletop.

"_Speakin'_ of the elf, Flo, has Alistair let him shag you yet? _Ouch, _nughumper!"

This was in response to Leliana picking up a small pebble from the soil of the planter and flicking it deftly at the back of Oghren's head. The dwarf shot her a scowl, making a less-than-polite gesture with his fingers.

"Anyway, lass, jus' wanted to let you know what the plans were. Glad I've got your 'proval. Means a lot, you know?"

Flora smiled at him wistfully, remembering how she and Alistair had first met the dwarf while he was in the process of being manhandled from the Diamond Quarter, drunk and disorderly.

"Oghren, you're a different man from the one we met in Orzammar," she said earnestly, and the dwarf seemed to swell several inches; his chin lifting a fraction. "Will you stay for dinner?"

"You want me ter… ter _stay? _Usually people are pleased ter see the back o' me!"

"I _want_ you to stay," Flora repeated, firmly. "I'd like to hear all about what you've been doing over the past few weeks."

* * *

The dwarf left just after sunset, passing Alistair and his escort of Royal Guard at the gate. Waylaying the king a moment, Oghren revealed his plans to join the Grey Wardens; glancing hopefully up at the taller man out of the corners of his eyes. After expressing initial surprise, Alistair had grinned and clapped the dwarf on the back, offering sincere congratulations.

When the king turned reflexively towards the guest chambers, Oghren had called out; halfway through heaving himself up into his long-suffering pony.

"She ain't up there, Alistair. She went off ter the Chantry."

"Oh."

Alistair blinked; somewhat surprised. Flora was not particularly religious, and tended to avoid the Chantry if her presence was not required. From what he remembered of monastery routine and ritual, the evening service wouldn't begin for another hour.

All became clear once he had arrived within Revanloch's Chantry, the cool stone interior a welcome sanctuary from the muggy humidity of the evening. The hollow space appeared near-empty at first, a lone Chantry Sister refilling the incense holders with fresh sage.

Then a shifting of movement caught Alistair's eye, and he caught sight of Flora's two Templar guardians; standing still as suits of armour at the entrance to a side chapel. The glow of candlelight emanated from the recessed hollow, and Alistair headed duly towards it.

Flora was sitting cross-legged on the flagstones, her dual arcs of remembrance set out neatly before her. The wax had trickled down the stalks of the candles, stretching out in pale rivulets across the dark basalt tiles; she had clearly been sitting there for some time. An abandoned taper drooped between her fingers, the end still smoking.

Not wanting to disturb her contemplation, Alistair managed to fold his powerful frame unobtrusively down to the flagstones beside her. Flora blinked, as though awakened from some waking dream; peering at him as though he was a stranger. There were damp streaks on her cheeks, eyelashes clumped together with the remnants of stray tears.

The king leaned forward and kissed his mistress on each side of her face in turn, tasting salt against his lips.

"My sweet girl," he murmured and said nothing more, waiting for her to speak in her own time.

"Nobody understands why I'm still sad," Flora mumbled after a moment, without further clarification. Alistair bit back his question, reaching out and smoothing a wispy curl of hair away from her forehead.

"About my spirits being gone," she explained, realising that her tears could theoretically have been for any of the dead commemorated before her. There was a candle to represent each of those who had been lost over the course of their journey; from their ill-fated Warden-Commander Duncan, to a lowly husk of a dwarf named Ruck, cowering in the darkest recesses of the Deep Roads.

"Because they weren't people. But they were _like_ people to me," Flora continued, tearfully. "They were my friends. They _made _me who I was. They helped so many, they gave up _existing_ to end the Blight, and… and nobody cares. There'll be memorials for all the others who gave their lives for Ferelden, but my spirits... _n__obody_ will remember them, except for me!"

She stared at him, part-tearful and part-indignant. The glimmering tangle of candle-flames was reflected in her pale irises, illuminating the gold fleck left by the Archdemon's soul. Alistair gazed back at her for a long moment, a line creasing his noble brow as he mentally crafted his response.

"Darling, we've _all_ been saved by your spirits at one time or the other. Whether it was from some deadly blow deflected, a fatal injury healed, or a poison cured. We all ought to remember them."

The king nodded, warming to his idea as he enunciated it.

"Let's have a memorial for them tomorrow evening. We'll invite everyone."

Flora blinked at him, damp-eyed and hopeful.

"You… you think they'll come?"

_For you, they will, _the king thought to himself as he nodded, firmly.

"Of course, my love. We owe our lives to them."

Alistair reached out and brushed his thumb gently beneath her eyelashes, lifting away the wetness clinging there.

"But no kneeling in vigil for eight hours this time, eh?"

Flora inhaled unsteadily, then lunged forwards, shoving herself ingloriously against the solid bulk of his chest. The king leaned back, gathering his mistress into his arms and kissing the top of her head with sudden, fierce affection.

"You grieve as long as you need to," he murmured into the untidy mass of dark red hair, his fingers sliding down to clasp hard into hers. "My sweet girl."

Alistair's gaze settled on a tall, dripping candle that he somehow _knew_ was meant to represent Duncan. For a moment, he fancied that he saw their old Warden-Commander standing in the hollowed recess of the chapel, his dark Rivaini eyes shifting thoughtfully in the candlelight.

_Are you looking after your sister-warden as I requested, Alistair? Remember: she's younger than you, and wholly inexperienced in the ways of the world._

_Actually, Duncan, she mostly ended up looking after me. After all of us._

_But I swear, I'll take care of her now. For as long as she lives, I'll keep her safe: my sister-warden._

"Don't set yourself on fire," muttered Knight-Captain Gannorn darkly from the chapel entrance, eyeing the ring of burning candles. "Or our Chantry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like this chapter because it has Oghren in it, a character who I slightly neglected in TLATL! I hope to give him a bit more of an interesting role in this one. Plus, it's a nice excuse to bring Loghain down for the coronation, plus some of the new characters from Awakenings. It has a bit of joviality in it, and also a bit of sadness – Flora, realistically, still isn't over the loss of her spirits. But I think having a memorial for them - like they did for the other dead – will help her grieving process. GOOD IDEA ALISTAIR!
> 
> In other matters, the coronation/wedding is NEXT WEEK and Flora still knows bugger all, lol.


	33. An Unexpected Visitor

The following day rained incessantly, the drizzle only abating when the murky sun began to sink into the western horizon. A veil of mist settled over the cliffs; softening Revanloch's harsh basalt edges and restricting vision to a few dozen yards. As the twilight deepened into a rich, lustrous navy; stars emerged like little jewels from the heavens, rays of moonlight scattering the mists to reveal the great dark swathe of the Amaranthine Ocean.

To Flora's relief, Alistair and Leliana had taken charge of organising the impromptu 'memorial' for her spirits. It didn't seem appropriate somehow to hold such a service within the Chantry, in light of their less-than-flattering view of mages. Instead, they decided to hold it atop the Revanloch ramparts, in view of both sea and star-studded sky. In lieu of the customary pyre, the remnants of Flora's staff were brought down from the palace; though Guilluame discreetly kept one fragment behind to use for future display.

Alistair had sent frantic messages about the memorial around the noble district and across to the Circle camp – the mages alone had remained on the Alamarri plains, in an effort to purify the tainted soil so that it could be used for crops once more. As sundown drew near, a whole caravan of people passed beneath Revanloch's crumbling main gate. Many of them did not quite understand _what _exactly they were attending, but they came out of regard of their young Cousland; who had taken the loss of her spirits very hard.

Leonas Bryland arrived first on horseback, proving that his maimed hand was no deterrent to skilled ridership. Shortly afterwards, the Cousland and Guerrin brothers arrived as part of a small group; talking in low voices to each other as they rode beneath the old stone archway and into Revanloch's large courtyard.

Flora's companions arrived next in a slow trickle; Oghren on his stout little pony, followed shortly by Leliana, who had been perusing robes in the newly restocked Denerim market. Now that the Blight was ended, imports had begun to trickle back through Ferelden's ports; including a fresh shipment of raw silk from Orlais. Sten, who had never trusted Flora's spirits but appreciated their utility, arrived in their wake. The stableboys, awed and intimidated by the Qunari's bulk, scuttled to take his horse while not quite daring to look him in the eye.

Wynne arrived just as the drizzle began to abate, the senior mage murmuring animatedly to Ferelden's First Enchanter. Irving had done his own quiet research into the identity of Flora's spirits; beings of such blatant antiquity and power tended to have legends attached to them. This was now a pointless pursuit – the spirits had been blasted apart by the Archdemon's soul, and would take millennia to reform – but Irving wished to honour their contribution regardless.

Meanwhile, up in the guest chamber, a miserable Flora was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling compulsively at a loose thread in her sleeve. Alistair had half-finished pruning his _facial hair of authority, _squinting at his reflection in the mirror with shaving-blade in hand.

"Does it look alright, Lo? I'll take it all off if it looks ridiculous."

"You look very handsome," she replied with forced cheer; turning her head to give Alistair a quick and entirely unnecessary once-over. "But you'd look handsome if you were bald-headed and had a moustache like Oghren."

Alistair smiled at Flora over his shoulder, appreciative of her effort to find kind words in the midst of her sadness.

"Thank you, darling, but I'm not _ambitious_ enough to pursue dwarven-style facial hair."

Flora dropped her gaze to her lap, and then blinked as a shadow fell over the floorboards. She looked up to see Zevran already partway across the room, clad in a dark leather tunic with a high collar that rose about his throat. The elf's expression was sombre, and he clutched a bouquet of sunset-hued flowers.

"_Mi florita," _he murmured, glancing swiftly behind him before bending down to kiss both of Flora's cheeks in quick succession. _"Lo siento."_

"I see you still hate doors," commented Alistair amiably. Moments later the king cursed as he accidentally nicked his cheek with the shaving-blade, pressing his thumb to the minute wound in annoyance.

Flora smiled wanly up at Zevran, her eyes moving curiously to the bunch of flowers clasped in his hand. They were exotic in appearance, made up of dozens of clustered tiny petals in hues of amber and peach.

"What are these?" she asked curiously, touching one delicate green stem with a finger.

"They are _caléndulas, carina," _replied the elf, softly. "The flower of mourning, according to Antivan custom."

Flora felt tears beginning to well in the corners of her eyes, and blinked them back furiously.

"They always warned me never to cry in front of anyone," she mumbled, aware in retrospect that her spirits had subtly been preparing her for the role of _Warden-Commander. _"I think they'll be disappointed in me tonight."

Zevran pressed the flowers into Flora's bitten-nailed hands, patting her knee gently with his own elegant fingers.

"_I_ think such a thing would be impossible," he murmured quietly, withdrawing his hand and glancing behind once again. "You have another visitor, I will see you on the ramparts."

As the elf made a quiet exit, Flora and Alistair peered at one another in confusion. The guest chamber was ostensibly empty, the corridor outside quiet, save for the shifting boots of Flora's Templars against the creaking floorboards. A humid evening breeze filtered in through the ajar window, ruffling the curtains with a gentle whisper of fabric against glass.

"Wha- " started Alistair, then his eyes were drawn to a flutter of movement in the centre of the window frame.

A raven, its feathers glossy and indigo, was perched with claws digging into the wood. Small, clever eyes were focused on the occupants of the room; as though establishing who was present before committing to entrance. Flora rose to her feet, using her palms to propel herself upwards from the mattress, wide-eyed and with her mouth part open.

The raven let itself drift slowly inside, wings spread. Before it made contact with the floorboards, it's outline began to blur and unfold outwards, a dark silhouette that shifted into female form. The feet that landed on the floorboards were those of a woman, bound in strips of leather and with nails darkened by earth.

The Witch of the Wilds stood before them clad in her usual rustic garb, small beads and animal bones woven into strands of ink-black hair. It had been the first time that Alistair had seen the witch since pleading with her to help Flora in the Fade; and the first time that Flora herself had seen Morrigan since the roof of Fort Drakon, with the Archdemon snarling in the far corner.

"Well," Morrigan began, determined to begin the conversation on her own terms. "It's been some time. Don't lie and claim that you missed me- "

Flora scuttled across the room with surprising vigour for someone in her advanced condition. She came to an abrupt halt before Morrigan with face contorted, fists clenched at her sides; simultaneously desperate to embrace her and respectful of the witch's personal space.

Morrigan's carefully blank expression flickered as she gazed downwards. A moment later, the witch sighed and raised a hand.

"If you must. Such _sentiment_, 'tis enough to make the stomach roll!"

Flora wasted no more time, throwing her arms around the witch's waist and embracing her with a delighted squawk. Alistair responded with slightly more measured enthusiasm; flashing Morrigan a rueful smile over Flora's head.

"We thought you'd gone back to the swamps, Mor."

Morrigan let out a small sniff, letting her hand brush abrupt but affectionate down Flora's back.

"I could call your city a swamp of humanity, but I do not; in the interest of maintaining _civility. _I certainly hope that you do not expect me to address you as Your Majesty!"

"I can say with _absolute certainty _that I did not expect that," Alistair replied mildly, as Flora continued to cling to the witch's bosom.

"Hmph," said Morrigan, eyeing the top of Flora's dark red head. "I see you have not abandoned your _limpet-like _qualities. Will it take another Blight for you to release me?"

Yet there was no harshness in her tone; and a modicum of affection could be found within the soft reproach.

Finally Flora withdrew, her eyes bright and appreciative. She beamed up at their most longstanding companion, who had first joined their cause in the Korcari Wilds after an instruction from the inimitable Flemeth.

"I'm so glad to see you," she said, honest and without ornament. "I thought you'd gone. Are you coming to my memorial?"

"Not _your _memorial, Flo," replied Alistair, a stern note in his tone. "The memorial for your spirits."

Morrigan's dark-painted lip curled and she swung her head from side to side in the negative, with a little accompanying shudder.

"I have spent most of my life avoiding the wrath of Templars. I do not think it wise that I – technically, an _apostate – _reveal myself within their inner sanctum."

The witch reached down to Flora's stomach with a business-like hand, letting her palm follow the curve of the baby.

"You're carrying high and full," the witch murmured, feeling a twitch of movement beneath her fingers. "In the_ animal _kingdom, this means that the child is male. Perhaps it is the same in the human kingdom also."

Alistair felt something constrict in his throat at Morrigan's words; his stomach clenching within his gut.

"Really," said Flora cluelessly, her fingers settling instinctively on the rounded swell. "What about in the fish kingdom? Oh, fish lay eggs."

Morrigan shot her a mildly incredulous look, and then cleared her throat.

"I came to tell you that I intend to return to the Wilds, to see if they are indeed Blighted. I also go in search of my mother; though I doubt she lingered if our home was in immediate danger. I _do _plan on – oh, _blast and damnation!"_

This was in response to Alistair sniffing and brushing a hand quickly over his face. Flora turned towards her former brother-warden in alarm, spotting the beginnings of tears in the corners of his hazel eyes.

"Sorry," Alistair muttered, embarrassed. "It's just- "

He made a little gesture towards Flora's stomach, using his sleeve to dab at his face. Flora smiled at him, while Morrigan rolled her eyes in blatant derision.

"And here I thought it was the _woman_ who became unbalanced with the growth of a babe," the witch muttered, reaching to adjust the leather thong circling her neck. "Anyway, I did not wish to leave without… saying farewell."

Flora took a deep, steadying breath. She had been preparing herself for some time for this moment: when one of her companions made their goodbyes.

"Will you be back for the baby?" she asked, hopefully.

Morrigan shot her a quick, darting look from the corner of her gilded eye.

"Why, 'tis up to you," she murmured, in faintly mocking tones. "Would you desire the presence of an apostate such as myself at the bedside of a newborn infant? I might turn it into a _frog."_

"Of course," Flora replied immediately as Alistair narrowed his eyes in a scowl. "I want the baby to meet one of the bravest women I know."

"The _bravest?" _repeated Morrigan, one eyebrow rising. "How so?"

"Leaving the Wilds must have been like me leaving Herring," Flora explained, earnestly. "But you were in the Wilds for even _longer. _It must have been very strange."

"Let's not forget that her mother all but _forced _her into it," muttered Alistair quietly, who had not forgiven the witch for her flippant comment about transforming the baby into an amphibian.

"Still," repeated Flora, firmly. "It was brave of you to come with us. Thank you."

Morrigan inclined her head, lifting her chin and taking a step backwards.

"Alistair, it may be possible for me to write to you on the state of the Wilds, and the condition of the land which I pass over," she murmured, not quite meeting his gaze. "Would this perhaps be_ useful_ to you, considering your new position?"

Alistair's eyebrows rose, and he looked at the witch with a guarded gratitude.

"Well, yes," he replied, warily. "Eamon is planning some sort of_ royal progress_ for after the coronation, but it'll only reach as far as Lothering. It'd be useful to learn the extent of the Blight's damage further south. Thank… thank you, Morrigan."

The Chasind woman inclined her head with a wordless, feline grace, retreating rapidly towards the window as she heard the booted sounds of Templars outside. Flora bit at her lip, resisting the urge to embrace their oldest companion one final time.

The witch clambered up onto the window bench, lithe and graceful as any Theodesian predator; as the door opened, she folded herself into a beating of feathered wings.

Alistair wrinkled his nose at the faint, acrid tang of magic; whereas Flora had been so utterly severed from the Fade that she could not even smell its residue.

Moments later, Knight-Captain Gannorn entered, with the slightly wary expression he adopted whenever coming into a room where the king and his mistress had been left alone. Upon seeing them both fully dressed and at a chaste distance, he opened both of his eyes and cleared his throat.

"The visitors are gathered upon the ramparts, Your Majesty."

Alistair looked down at Flora, just in time to see her flinch. He reached out to anchor his best friend's fingers tightly within his own, bringing her hand to his mouth.

"Ready to say goodbye to your spirits, my love?"

"No," she replied in a small voice, then took a deep breath and channelled her best Herring stoicism. "But, let's go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Aaaaah, Alistair getting sentimental about his unborn baby is def my aesthetic, lol. I love Morrigan, I love every part of her acerbic personality – I don't want to soften her spiky edges at all. The orange flowers that Zevran gives Flora are marigolds, which are actually a Mexican flower of mourning, not Spanish!


	34. Farewell to Flora's Spirits

The shroud of dusk settled upon Revanloch, the stars like hanging ethereal lanterns overhead. The moon was so low that it appeared almost to be submerged within the deep green vista of the Amaranthine Ocean. In the distance, the city of Denerim could be seen smouldering away; the light from several hundred braziers creating an ochre haze above the clustered buildings.

Atop the ramparts, Flora's companions both noble and common gathered about an empty iron brazier; a salt-edged breeze ruffling hair and clothing. It was not like the usual Fereldan memorial – there was no priestess present, no effigy of Andraste, none of the recognisable Chantry funereal trappings – and yet this was _not_ a usual memorial. There was no body and no pyre, only a few fragments of charred wood placed carefully on a silver tray.

Leliana, who had taken charge of this strange service, cleared her throat. She had dressed up in her lay-sister robes, her hair neatly pinned behind her ears and her expression very solemn.

"The Maker gathers all souls and spirits to his side," the bard began, her voice carrying clear and melodic across the ramparts. "Yet there are some spirits which forsake their deserved eternal rest to serve a greater purpose. In this case, to assist Ferelden in the defence against the Fifth Blight."

Flora inhaled unsteadily, grateful for both Alistair's hand clamped firmly around her own, and Finian standing close at her elbow.

"The contribution of these spirits – of Valour, and Compassion – cannot be denied," Leliana continued, softly. "First Enchanter?"

Irving stepped forwards, fingers tucked into the sleeves of his robe and lined face wreathed in thought.

"To be a spirit healer is a rare calling," Ferelden's most senior mage mused, contemplative. "It is unusual for spirits to show any interest in the waking world, let alone for them to reach out and make contact with a mortal. I am only sorry, Flora, that I was unaware of your skills whilst you were at the Tower. You would not have been so neglected."

"It's alright," Flora replied, in a small voice. "I didn't stand out at all."

"And yet the spirits chose _you," _Irving countered, his shrewd eyes settling on her. "Out of all the mages within Ferelden."

There was silence for a moment, during which a seagull gave a long and mournful cry. Leliana, who had been intending to ask Flora to share her first memories of her spirits, saw the agonised look on the young Cousland's face and rapidly changed her course.

"I don't think there's one amongst us here who haven't benefitted from Flora's spirits in some way," the lay sister said, softly. "Would anybody like to share one of these memories?"

Without pause, Teagan Guerrin raised a hand. All eyes turned to the bann, including Flora's own damp gaze.

"When the dead surged out from the gates of Redcliffe Castle, they didn't split their forces," Teagan murmured, his voice low. "Our defences at the southern barricade would have been overwhelmed in minutes. Then the lass went running off towards the enemy. Her shield went up over the bridge, and it bought us time to bring in reinforcements from the east path. As a result, the village – and our lives - were preserved."

Flora blinked at Teagan as he shot her a quick glance, both of them remembering distinctly that cold and rainy night when the dead had stormed Redcliffe.

_Light the oil! she had bellowed, slithering over the mud towards the defenders as the barrier disintegrated behind her. Light it, light it, light it! The fire was ignited, and she had brought up her shield; crashing through the flames with sparks licking the hem of her battered woollen coat._

Leonas put up his hand next, the coarse stitches still lodged in the ruins of his maimed fingers. When the arl of South Reach spoke, his voice was rueful and reminiscent.

"An assassin once poisoned my flagon. I saw my life pass before my eyes – my throat burned as though a fire had been stoked in my belly. I couldn't see the great hall or even those sat around me – all had gone dark – and then the lady Cousland came crashing over the table, elegant as always- " here, the general flashed a wry smile sideways at Flora "- and she _drew_ the poison from me, breathed it in as though it were… as though it were perfume. I would have been dead in minutes, if it wasn't for the healing that Florence imparted."

Arl Eamon then told of how his son's life had been saved when Flora had ventured into the Fade; a strange golden light blistering the demon until it had burnt from the inside out. Fergus recanted the terrible moment when the South Reach assassin had severed a chandelier above Finian's head; only for the glass to shatter harmlessly against a gleaming, gilded shield expanding from Flora's outstretched fingers. Zevran, his expression uncharacteristically sombre, told of a girl who had spent all day patrolling about the army camp, and then all evening standing hopefully beneath a _heeling Here too-day! (Free) _sign in the most dangerous parts of the city.

Wynne had told of a shield being summoned across a tower roof in Fort Drakon; protecting Flora's companions while also preventing them from intervening as she limped alone towards the snarling Archdemon. The senior enchanter's words echoed across the ramparts, and Alistair felt a low curdling of nausea in his stomach; recalling the horrific moment when he had realised what Flora was intending. His grip tightened on her fingers, and he had to suppress the urge to embrace her.

Throughout each recanted memory, Flora had listened avidly as though she were not the central protagonist in each one. She had never taken credit for any of these actions – always deferring praise to her spirits, from whom she derived all her magic. In her hands, she clutched the fragmented remains of her staff; the wood charred and smeared with fingerprints. It was so unassuming in appearance that it could have masqueraded as a broken broom handle, and none would have been the wiser.

Finally, Alistair stepped forwards; the king's expression carefully neutral but his green-flecked eyes stern and determined.'

"I could stand here all night listing each fatal blow that Flo's magic has deflected from me," he said, bluntly. "I would be dead a thousand times over, if not for her spirits. Ferelden is saved, and the Blight _ended_ because of them."

Alistair glanced down at his mistress, the purposeful amber gaze softening.

"They saved your life, and… and the life _within _you, Lo. I owe them more than I could ever hope to say."

Flora swallowed, feeling her stomach constrict in a single, painful twist of sadness. There came a moment of silence, and she realised that everybody was waiting for her cue; giving her the chance to speak, if she so wished.

_How can I possibly explain what you meant to me? _she thought furiously into the silent void, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. _You were part of my own self. How can I describe that? My Silver Knight and Golden Lady._

Not wanting to look at anyone's expectant face, Flora dropped her gaze to the shadowed expanse of the Amaranthine Ocean, opaque as the surface of a mirror. The reflected night sky appeared to lie drowned beneath its placid surface; submerged stars wreathing a sunken pearl of a moon.

"You were there from the beginning to the end," she whispered at last, fingers tightening compulsively around the broken shards of wood. "You were the family that the Templars couldn't take from me."

Flora felt the edge of the wood bite into her white-seared palm, a bead of blood rising where a splinter had dug itself into the flesh. Whereas before she would have pressed her lips to the wound without a second thought; now, Flora gazed down at the tiny cut with horrified fascination, aware of her own new impotence.

_Come on: this is their memorial. You have to do them proud, do this properly._

Swallowing and forcing herself to look away, Flora cleared her throat and continued, in a small and determined voice.

"In the Circle, I cleaned corridors during the day, but you taught me how to mend in the Fade. When the Archdemon forced its way into my dreams, you made me face it until I could stare it in the eye without flinching. Now, every night… I'm on my own in the darkness. I see nothing, I- I hear nothing. I don't dream of anything. I'm alone, _properly_ alone. For the first time in my life."

Flora took a deep breath, not wanting to look at Alistair as his handsome face creased in distress beside her. She had a sudden vision of her dad, Pel, frowning at such a display of _melodrama_; his inherent Herring stoicism thrumming in disapproval.

_Sorry, papa. Can I blame it on the baby unbalancing me?_

After another steadying gulp of air, she stepped forwards to place the fragments of her staff into the iron brazier. The scattered shards of wood seemed small and insubstantial against the metal belly of the vessel; Flora had to resist the urge to scoop them out and press them protectively to her chest.

_No, _she thought fiercely to herself. _No matter what you did with this staff once, it's just kindling now._

Wynne stepped forward, touching the head of her own staff to the fragments of wood. An ochre flame sprung up, catching the dry shards almost immediately. They burned as ordinarily as any other wood, a thin trail of smoke curling upwards towards the twilit heavens.

Flora watched the remains of her staff burn within the makeshift pyre; her heart beating with such rapid ferocity that it almost frightened her. She had to physically stop herself from reaching into the flames and pulling out the smouldering splinters, reminding herself furiously that she no longer had the ability to summon a protective sheath around her hand.

Although she had been able to watch Riordan's body as it was engulfed on the pyre weeks prior, Flora found herself unable to keep her eyes on the shards of wood as they began to burn and blacken. She looked down at her feet, feeling the tears finally spill over her eyelashes; no longer caring if the others saw her cry.

Before the first tears had made their way down past her nose, Flora felt her former brother-wardenreach around her waist, drawing her back beneath the protective crook of his arm. Catching sight of Alistair's expression from the corner of her eye, Flora was startled at the grimness and the guilt fighting for dominance across his handsome features.

_He didn't realise how alone I felt at night. But how was he supposed to know? I didn't tell him._

Now Flora could feel Alistair rigid and unhappy beside her, his arm clamped tightly about her shoulders. She gave him a reassuring nudge with her elbow, and he shot her an agonised glance in return from the corner of his eye.

Within minutes, the shards had become charred curlicues of carbon, lying in the bottom of the brazier like the leavings of a hearth-fire. Leliana, who had conducted the service for Flora's spirits with the same solemnity as she would have done for any fallen soldier, murmured a Chantry incantation; passing her hand gracefully before her chest.

"Let us take a moment."

There followed a short silence as those gathered on the ramparts paused to reflect; some thinking dutifully on Flora's spirits, others focusing more on the girl who had channelled their mighty will. An owl let out a mournful hoot from somewhere within Revanloch's rafters, the sound echoing about the crumbling walls and shadowed courtyards.

Zevran caught Flora's eye skilfully from the other side of the brazier. She blinked at him and he held up tan, elegant fingers twisted into the shape of a heart. Flora attempted to smile at him, the corner of her mouth curving into a miserable grimace.

At a subtle cue from Leliana, Alistair cleared his throat; keeping a tight grip on his mistress as she slumped miserably at his side.

"Thank you all for coming," he murmured in a quiet undertone, aware that a memorial for departed _spirits _was somewhat of an odd concept. "I appreciate it."

Leonas Bryland grunted, touching his maimed hand to Alistair's shoulder.

"For the little lass," he murmured under his breath, nodding to where Flora was still hunched and unhappy beneath Alistair's protective arm. "Look after her."

Just as the group was on the verge of splintering, a low and steady voice came from the steps leading down into the courtyard.

"I still think about that golden ship sometimes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I think this will help Flora in her grieving process! I thought it would be a nice thing to do, to have a memorial for her spirits considering they played such a major role in The Lion and the Light. It was nice to revisit some of their contributions from the previous story, though!


	35. A Parting Gift

Those still gathered on the ramparts turned to see the young Templar lieutenant, clad in travelling leathers and with a full pack slung over his shoulder. In the courtyard below, they could hear the chatter of the stable boys as they readied a lone horse for departure.

"I still remember it. The golden ship that your spirits made," Cullen repeated steadily, his tawny eyes fixing themselves on Flora's face. She stared back at him, astonished by the lack of customary shyness in his stare.

"The one from South Reach," she breathed, recalling a clouded spring evening and a fine mist of drizzle. "Connor's ship."

_We stood on the cobblestones in the courtyard, _Flora remembered, a lump rising to her throat. _Me, Connor Guerrin, this young Templar. I wanted to show Connor that magic could be a… a beautiful thing to possess, rather than just something to be feared._

"It was meant to be a constellation," Cullen said after a moment, not well versed in astrological lore. "Do you remember going up to the tower roof, with the arl's son?"

Arl Eamon stiffened slightly, his ears pricking with interest. Flora nodded, remembering how she had sent her gleaming simulacrum of the _Peraquialus _on a slow, glimmering ascent; while Connor had tugged her with _excited-child_ haste up the winding tower steps.

_We came out on the roof – this Templar behind us, keeping pace – and Connor's face was bright with pleasure and excitement. He wasn't scared of the magic anymore; he was fascinated by it._

"I'll never forget the sight of that golden ship rising into the sky," Cullen said, earnest and – for the span of several heartbeats – unashamed of his own admiration. "It was one of the… one of the most _beautiful _things I've ever seen. The boy couldn't stop talking about it on the journey to the Circle."

Flora inhaled unsteadily, grateful for Alistair's steadying arm about her waist. Cullen continued, the words emerging in a heated rush as though he were spilling his sins in a Chantry confession box.

"Anyway, I wanted to give you… to give you this."

The young officer turned to his pack and reached down, retrieving a roll of parchment sealed with a wax Chantry emblem. Uncomfortably aware of the eyes of Ferelden's most powerful nobility resting on him, Cullen strode across the ramparts and thrust the roll of parchment into a startled Flora's hand.

"I'd like to request that you don't open it right away," he mumbled, retreating quickly towards his travel pack. "Or, at least – not in front of me."

Alistair narrowed his eyes a fraction as Flora blinked, astonished. She clutched the roll of parchment, wondering at its length and weight.

Finian watched the Templar curiously as he went to retrieve pack, sword and shield; one fine russet brow lifting.

"Are you going somewhere, Lieutenant Rutherford?"

Cullen gave a slight nod in response, clearly anxious to remove himself before Flora could break the seal on the parchment.

"I've been posted to Kirkwall, in the Marches," he replied, quietly. "I'm hoping it'll be less… _eventful _up there_."_

Without another word, the Templar slung his pack over his shoulder; nearly dropping sword and sigil-marked shield in his haste. Head bowed and gaze set determinedly forwards, Cullen made his way down the steps leading into the lower courtyard.

The moment that the officer's curly blond head disappeared below the ramparts, Finian reached out and snatched the roll of parchment from Flora's hand.

"Wasn't that the Templar who kept mooning over you at South Reach? I bet this is a love letter," he said gleefully, picking at the wax seal as Flora squawked in outrage. "A declaration of undying passion!"

"_Undying passion!?" _demanded Alistair, nostrils flaring. The king had still not fully recovered from the revelation that Fergus had already turned down a half-dozen proposals for his younger sister's hand. "Let me see!"

"Nonsense," countered Leliana firmly, her eyes focused with predatorial interest on the roll of parchment. "It's far too large for a letter."

Flora, nonplussed, watched her brother break the seal on the wax, unrolling the full dimension of the thin vellum. It was about an arm's length in width, and Finian said nothing as he stared at the parchment's contents.

"What is it?" demanded Leliana, making an impatient gesture. "Show us!"

Wordlessly, Finian turned the parchment so that Flora could see it.

The vellum, made of finest calfskin, was decorated with an illustration scribed in ink-pen. The Templar had replicated near-perfectly the fine-boned structure of Flora's features, her eyes half-closed and her full Cousland mouth part-open. Her hand – accurate down to the bitten fingernails – was raised before her face, oddly graceful. Using the gold ink usually reserved for decorating copies of the Chant, Cullen had illustrated curlicues of light radiating from the outstretched fingertips; coiling effortlessly to the edges of the vellum. Flecks of metallic ink surrounded the portrait like a misting rain, and veins of gold ran through the windswept hair.

Flora had never seen her old abilities depicted in such a way before. In conjunction with her new inability to dream, she had resigned herself to the fact that she would never again see how her magic had _looked_. The Templar's inked drawing had preserved that which Flora had believed would gradually slip into the darker recesses of her memory. Breathless, she reached out to touch the vellum with a fingertip, tracing the metallic outline of the emerging magic.

"How beautiful, _ma petite," _Leliana murmured, her eyes moving over various painstaking details. "What a kind parting gift."

Squinting down at the uncanny replication of Flora's face – exact down to the curve of the mouth and delicate hollow of the throat – Arl Leonas' eyes narrowed a fraction, and he nudged Fergus in the ribs.

"I'd wager that's not the first time that the Templar has drawn your sister," he muttered in an undertone. "That's a _practised_ hand."

Fergus nodded, keeping his response similarly low.

"Aye, I was thinking the same thing," he replied, grimly. "Still, he's headed off to Kirkwall. The Marcher wind will blow any inappropriate desires out of his head."

Down in the courtyard, Cullen finished loading up the horse with the last of his possessions. He had gathered scant belongings during his decade at the Chantry, and the horse was not especially weighted. After attaching his shield to the saddle, he reached for his sword, which was propped up against a nearby barrel.

Sliding the long blade carefully into its travel scabbard, Cullen took a deep breath of damp Revanloch evening air. The Templar knew it could be the last time that he would ever stand within the crumbling walls of the old monastery. Yet Cullen felt no sorrow at the prospect – Ferelden held an excess of vexing memories, of both torture and temptation in equal measure. There was a considerable part of the young man which hoped that Kirkwall would prove to be a place that he could call _home; _where he could both serve the Maker and sleep easy in his bed.

"Lieutenant Rutherford?"

The officer turned around and startled; if he had been holding something in his hands, he would have dropped it. Flora was standing on the cobbles, slightly flush in the face from the exertion of scuttling across the ramparts and down the steps. She stared up at him, wide-eyed and solemn, shifting from foot to foot in an effort to stop herself from lunging forward.

"Thank you for the picture," she said after a moment, impulsively. "Sorry for opening it. My brother is bad at following instructions; not like me."

Cullen dropped his stare to the cobbles, self-consciousness flooding his cheeks with a rush of pink.

"It's… it's fine," he muttered to his boots. "You're welcome."

Despite the veil of dusk settling over Revanloch like a shroud, torchlight illuminated the young man's flushed face. Abandoning caution to the wind, Flora stepped forwards. Relatively confident that Cullen would not reject her – nobody had ever recoiled from one of her earnestly offered embraces – she stretched her arms towards him.

Sure enough, after a moment of fleeting indecision, the Templar accepted her hug; at first rigid, and then relaxing in small increments. He patted her awkwardly and rather forcefully between the shoulder-blades, as though trying to dislodge some stuck food.

"Good luck in Kirkwall," Flora mumbled into his shoulder, before withdrawing in the hope that she had not embarrassed him too extensively. The Templar summoned stoicism to his face to disguise any careless fragment of emergent emotion; nodding tightly as he made to mount the saddle.

Flora stepped back, shielding her eyes against the torchlight as Cullen nudged the horse's flank gently with his knee. With a final, gruff nod in her direction, he turned his mount's head towards Revanloch's main gate.

_This doesn't feel like a forever-parting, _Flora wondered, watching his silhouette diminish as he rode away. _I can't explain why._

_I don't regret anything, _the young Templar thought defiantly to himself as the horse picked its way over the cobbles.

Once Cullen's horse had disappeared into the shadows, the others joined Flora in the courtyard. The stable boys moved quietly about them, leading their horses out from the stables. By this time, the moon had risen full and plump; a swollen white peach casting a watery hue over Revanloch's damp cobbles.

Flora watched her friends and companions prepare to mount up, talking softly amongst themselves. Eamon was murmuring to Finian about the need to re-open Amaranthine's port for trade; while Wynne and Irving exchanged wry smiles at the suspicious glances they were receiving from the Templar guards. The courtyard quickly became crowded as retainers clad in Guerrin, Cousland, Bryland and Theirin livery emerged from the servants' hall, ready to escort their noble charges back to the city.

Flora stood to one side, watching the preparations to depart. A light, misting drizzle had begun to fall and she tucked the roll of parchment into her tunic to protect it.

Eamon clambered up onto his horse, rubbing at a sore knee with a grimace before sliding his boot into the stirrup. The arl of Redcliffe glanced around for his retainers, one eyebrow rising as he saw Alistair standing motionless on the cobbles. The king's horse was waiting patiently, head held still by a dutiful young stableboy.

"Alistair?"

"I'm not coming back to the palace with you, uncle," replied Alistair, low and steady.

Flora blinked across at him, clutching the folds of her tunic shut over the roll of parchment.

"I'll be there for the guild meeting tomorrow," the king continued, his gaze not leaving his mistress' face. "But I'm staying with Flo tonight."

Alistair rounded the back of the horse, coming to a halt on the cobblestones just before Flora. Flora wondered at the seriousness of his expression, pressing her cheek reflexively into his palm as he cupped the side of her face. Staring up at him, she saw her own miserable confession from earlier writ plain across his features.

_Every night, I'm on my own in the darkness. I see nothing, I hear nothing. I don't dream. I'm alone, properly alone._

Flora's best friend gazed back down at her through the misting drizzle, hazel irises bruised with concern. His thumb traced the high bone of her cheek, and the affectionate gesture brought incongruous tears to Flora's own eyes.

"I'm so sorry that I sent you away after the Blight ended," he said after a moment, the regret running raw in his voice. "I should have been there with you, Lo. I'm such an idiot."

Flora shook her head silently, a protest rising to her lips. Yet Alistair had already turned away, his eyes boring into her two Templar guards standing unobtrusively to one side.

"Your presence won't be required tonight."

Eyes lighting like candles, Zevran leaned across the space between the saddles and whispered in Finian's ear, his expression gleeful. Finian grimaced and looked as though he wanted to elbow the elf in the ribs; neither requiring nor _desiring_ Zevran to enunciate Alistair's intentions more explicitly.

"That's my _little sister," _he retorted indignantly, sole remaining eye wide and accusatory. "I don't need to hear you say it out loud."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So Cullen being good at drawing is ENTIRELY headcanon, lol! Though I think it's not too outlandish, since Templars spend all their time observing and people-watching; I imagine he would be quite good at picking up on facial details. Anyway, I thought this would be a nice way to say farewell to Cullen – though good luck finding peace and quiet in Kirkwall, hahaha…


	36. Together In The Darkness

As much as Alistair may have desired complete privacy, such was an impossible thing if one was the king of Ferelden. Although Knight-Captain Gannorn and Chanter Devotia had been relegated to their own rooms for the night, a half-dozen Royal Guard had been posted outside the guest chamber.

Still, as the king closed the door firmly in his wake, he was grateful for even a semblance of seclusion. Stopping short of actually turning the key in the lock – he knew from experience that this would cause great protest from the guard – he hoped that the door would sit well enough in its uneven frame to stay closed.

Moonlight spilled across the bedchamber from the opened windows, illuminating soft swathes of dust on the floorboards and disguising the patches of damp on the plastered walls. Flora, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, watched a small spider drop from a ceiling beam; the thin silken thread left in its wake caught the luminescence filtering through the clouded glass.

The sound of boot-steps roused Flora from her reverie, and she looked up as Alistair sat beside her on the mattress. He slid over his hand and she took it reflexively, gazing at the contrasting skin tone of their entwined fingers - alabaster woven through olive. His thumb immediately began to rub around her knuckles in slow, comforting circles; the gesture both intimate and familiar.

"Lola," Alistair said quietly after a moment, a raw note of self-doubt in his voice. "Did I do the wrong thing in sending you here after the Blight? I didn't have to listen to Eamon and the council; I _am _the king."

Flora thought for a moment, her brow furrowing. Alistair leaned forward, unable to help himself, and pressed a kiss to his solemn sister-warden's cheek. Her skin felt cool against his lips – with the departure of her spirits, Flora had lost the residual heat that loaned her body perpetual warmth.

"No, I think it was _right,"_ she said, slow and careful. "It gave me a chance to understand how I'd… how I'd changed. And it was quiet here. I – I think I needed some quietness, after what happened."

A small part of Alistair's worry was alleviated with this response; though he still kept a tight and anxious grip on her hand.

"It broke my heart what you said earlier, Lo," he muttered, so quiet she could barely hear him. "About being alone at night, surrounded by darkness. It – it felt like I'd been punched in the gut by a Qunari."

Flora looked down, feeling a sudden, sharp sting of sadness. The tears began to well on her eyelashes and Alistair inhaled, immediately distraught on her behalf.

"I'm so sorry, my love."

Flora shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. He reached out to turn her face towards his own, leaning forwards to let their mouths come naturally together. His lips worked hers open, a bold tongue immediately staking its claim. She let out a muffled gasp into his mouth and Alistair responded with a soft grunt of approval.

"But I'm here now," he murmured, letting his mouth drift over Flora's ear. He could feel her shivering as he traced the shell-like curve with the tip of his tongue, savouring each breathy squeak that escaped from her lips. The pale line of her throat was too tempting to resist; Alistair's mouth meandered down her neck in a slow progression of little sucking kisses. Flora squirmed helplessly beneath them, her fingers anchored in the folds of his tunic.

"Alistair," she breathed and he let out a low groan of desire against her skin, tracing the hollow of her collarbone with his tongue.

"I'm here, baby."

As the king made love to Flora's throat with the increasingly enthusiastic workings of his lips, his hand was busily divesting her of her clothing. He unfastened the lacings of her tunic with quickly-remembered fleetness, letting the folds of navy lambs-wool fall open to bare her breasts. Flora went to help him, shrugging her shoulders free of the garment so that it pooled around her waist. Her boots were already discarded halfway across the floor; it took but a moment to wriggle her smallclothes down around her thighs. She leaned back against the cushions, eyes heavy-lidded with desire; he followed her movement and began to kiss his way with clumsy ardour down her body.

"You're so beautiful," he mumbled into her skin, tongue now tracing the underside of her breast. "I can't believe you're _mine._ You exquisite creature."

There was but one thing in Ferelden that could distract a lust-ridden Alistair; and that was Flora's plump stomach, the skin stretched taut over the rounded curve that housed their growing child. He raised his head, gazing in wonder at the mound of flesh rising gently beneath her breasts.

"Maker's Breath," Alistair murmured, feeling his throat thicken with a sudden surge of emotion. "That's so amazing, Lo. Look how _big _it's getting."

Flora eyed the top of his bronzed head beadily as he planted a gentle mouth on the swollen flesh, kissing it as though the child itself could feel the pressure of his lips. Although she already loved her _little toad _beyond measure or reason, it had also made her sick that morning and given her indigestion in the afternoon.

"Hm," she said in response, waiting for him to move further south. When he continued to gaze at her belly, transfixed; Flora decided to take matters into her own hands.

Pushing herself up from the cushions, she squirmed her fingers into the waistband of Alistair's loosened breeches; delving them over the hard muscle of his abdomen and down through the nest of tangled hair.

Alistair inhaled unsteadily as she took him in hand, finally distracted from the mound of her stomach.

"Baby," he breathed into her ear, pushing himself hard into her fingers with a shift of his pelvis. "Maker, I've missed you."

Flora smiled against the new king's shoulder, curling an arm around his neck and inhaling the familiar masculine scent of his skin. She could describe the planes and hollows of her best friend's chest from memory, knew intimately the location of each faded scar and old callous.

Abruptly, lust flickering in the depths of his pupils, Alistair shoved his breeches awkwardly down his hips. Reaching out, he placed large hands on Flora's waist and manoeuvred her gently onto his lap. The fire in the hearth had burnt down to embers, just bright enough to ignite the green veins in his tawny irises.

Flora reached out to caress the side of her best friend's face, brought equal in height by her position straddling his naked thighs.

"I _need _you," she whispered, touching her thumb to his bearded chin. "Please."

Lost for words, Alistair kissed her in response, hard and desirous. As he leaned forwards, his arousal pressed insistently against her abdomen. Lips parting wetly, they both looked down at it and Alistair's brow furrowed in consternation.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said, a grimace creasing across his olive brow. "Or be too rough. Will you tell me if it's uncomfortable?"

Flora nodded impatiently, using her strong knee to raise herself several inches above his thighs. Alistair took a deep breath, summoning deep from the reserves of self-control, then took himself in hand and began to work inside her, an inch at a time. She was good and slick, which made it easier; but it had still been almost a month since he had last penetrated her. Beads of sweat began to rise to the king's forehead, teeth gritted with the effort required not to hilt himself in one deep thrust. Flora was also grimacing; growing used to the sensation of Alistair's considerable length within her.

Once he was sheathed fully between her legs, she gave an experimental little wriggle. Alistair let a low, helpless groan in response; fingers tightening on her waist.

"Darling," he whispered against her ear, in slightly strangled tones. "Give me a moment, I just almost spent myself."

Flora obediently arrested her momentum, letting Alistair take several deep, steadying gulps of air. Once some fragment of composure had been regained, he gripped Flora by the hips, easing her gently up and down. She matched his movements; letting her pelvis rock in slow synchrony against his own.

"Is – is it alright, Flo?"

Alistair's words blurred as he sunk himself repeatedly inside her, his buttocks clenching with each deep thrust. She let out a squeak of assent as she rode him; increasingly confident as she grew accustomed to her new shape. He groaned, eyelids half-closed with desire as the sounds of their lovemaking expanded to fill the room. The slickness of bodily arousal blended with the cadence of wet flesh meeting and parting; their moans and pants muddying together into a tangle of lust.

Flora's eyes were open, albeit clouded. She was dazedly watching the reflection of her best friend in the mirror; admiring the sweaty muscles of his back as they worked in rippling unison. Then Alistair's lips were at her ear, some coherent words managing to escape between the grunts and groans of pleasure.

"_Not – alone,"_ he gasped, urgent, forceful. "I'm here, baby."

_At last, at last._

Flora wrapped her arms around his neck, crying out helplessly as she felt her abdomen convulse; waves of energy spreading outwards from her core like a pebble dropped into a rockpool.

This raw whimper was the signal that Alistair had been waiting for; seconds later, he let out a strangled half-snarl of desire and dug his fingers into Flora's shoulders as his own pelvis spasmed violently. The room seemed to darken as his vision contracted; for several moments, he was only aware of his own frantically reverberating heart. Shortly afterwards his sweaty forehead dropped onto Flora's shoulder, the air escaping his lips in a rush. She reached up to slide her arms about his neck, strands of sweaty hair plastered to her cheeks.

Momentarily lost for words, Alistair shifted on the rumpled furs; leaning back against the cushions and bringing Flora with him. She rested her cheek against his chest, feeling him settle his chin on top of her head.

"Well," the king said, somewhat hoarsely. "That was _definitely _worth the wait."

Flora smiled dazedly into the taut muscle, a thin layer of sweat adhering her cheek to the skin.

"I love you," she whispered, feeling him inhale sharply and grip her a fraction tighter.

"And I adore you," he replied, voice ragged and earnest. "Maker's Breath. You are _magnificent, _my queen."

Alistair darted an eye towards Flora to see her reaction, yet she was huddled yawning against his chest; well mired in the stupor that followed good lovemaking.

"Ouch, my foot has gone to sleep."

In the passageway, one of the Royal Guardsmen posted at the doorway let out a muffled curse, while his counterpart snickered.

"Ha! A quarter-candle length, jus' as I said. Told you the king wouldn't last a full half, it's the first time he's bedded her in _weeks_. That's five silver you owe me!"

The first guard extracted a handful of coins from his pocket, belligerent and sulky as he handed them over.

"I still got my other wager," he retorted, defiantly. "Twice more tonight."

"Nah, the lady's got a fat Theirin babe in the belly, she'll be tired. Once more in the mornin', that was their custom in the palace."

Unfortunately for the latter guard, the third bell had just rung when the tell-tale noises began once more. It was the deepest, stillest part of the night, and the silence was broken by the moan of a girl filtering out beneath the door. The moans increased in need and tangled together into an incoherent feminine whimper; raw and pleading.

The first guardsman looked triumphant, and the second made to check his glee quickly; ducking down to squint through the keyhole.

"Tongue-wagging doesn't count!" he protested, indignantly. "It has to be a _proper _rut."

Unfortunately for him, shortly afterwards the unmistakable sound of wet flesh slapping together emerged from the chamber. The throaty grunts of a man joined with the girl's pants, interspersed with the sound of needy kisses. This bout of lovemaking was lengthier than the first; as they learnt how to best accommodate Flora's stomach.

The first guard grinned, making a rude gesture with his fingers at his scowling comrade.

"Ha! Once more, and I get double back, as agreed. _Come on, your Majesty!"_

The morning dawned damp and drizzly, an insipid sun barely bothering to show its face behind an Orlesian mask of cloud. Water ran in rivulets down Revanloch's tiled rooftops, flooding gutters and gathering in pools on the flagstones.

Teagan arrived on the tenth bell to escort Alistair back to the palace in good time for the trade guilds meeting. As the bann ascended the stairs to the guest passageway, he was greeted with one grinning Royal guard and a sulking counterpart.

"My lord," the first guard said, with a diplomatic clearing of the throat. "The king is… _indisposed_ at the moment. He shouldn't be long."

Teagan snorted, leaning against the wall and taking out some correspondence from Rainesfere.

"Good lad," he murmured, dropping his eyes to the sheriff's report.

"The lady Florence is a lovely lass," offered the second guardsman, for want of anything else to say. "King Alistair is a lucky man."

"Aye, she's beautiful," agreed Teagan, amiably. "And… he is."

"Jealous, my lord?" added the first, slyly. He had once been a man of Redcliffe, and was more familiar with the bann than most.

"Ha!" replied the younger Guerrin, forcing a note of humour into his voice. "I doubt I could keep up with a nineteen year old."

A short while later, the heated sounds from the bedchamber abated and Teagan duly tucked his correspondence away, a little warm under the collar himself. He counted to two hundred under his breath, then strode forwards and delivered a sharp rap to the door.

"The Bann of Rainesfere!" chirped out the triumphant guard as Teagan entered the guest chamber, carefully arranging his features into neutrality.

The room was lit by a weak, insipid sunlight; the cries of seagulls echoing from the cliffs outside. Alistair, clad only in unbuttoned breeches, was in the process of opening the window. The bed itself was in a state of disarray, with cushions strewn halfway across the room and furs tangled beyond recognition.

"Morning, uncle," Alistair called jovially over his shoulder, keeping his breeches up around his hips with one hand as he swung the window open.

"Morning, Alistair," Teagan replied, wryly. _"Slept_ well, I trust?"

Alistair was unable to prevent a grin from spreading across his face as he nodded.

"Well enough."

Just then the attention of both men was drawn by a mournful wail from Flora. She was standing in front of the mirror clad in Alistair's shirt, twisting her head from side to side to view her neck.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" Alistair demanded, shooting across the room with remarkable speed for a man his height.

Outraged, Flora turned to face him, gesturing at herself.

"I can't _heal_ these anymore!"

Her throat and shoulders were bruised with the aftermath of Alistair's sucking kisses, dark red marks scattered lewdly across the pale skin. Alistair blinked at her for a moment, and then – mistakenly – chuckled.

This was very much the _wrong_ response to make. Flora bent down, scooped up a cushion with her fingertips and launched it at the King of Ferelden's head. It exploded in a puff of feathers and he sneezed, several wads of fluff shooting directly up his nostrils.

"You feasted on me like a… a _moray eel! I'm maimed!"_

When Alistair emerged from the storm of feathers, wiping his eyes, Flora was still glowering at him. Trying not to laugh, he reached out his arms towards her.

"Alright, darling. You can plant one on me, if it'd make you feel better- "

Before he had finished speaking, Flora lunged forwards. Instead of pressing her lips to his neck or bare chest, she fastened her mouth around the end of his nose; firm as a limpet. When she withdrew, there was a distinct purplish bruise left at the very tip.

Alistair stared at himself at the mirror, eyebrows lodged somewhere within his hairline. In the background, Flora now appeared somewhat mollified.

"_Ha! _Haha."

"I'll have to say I was bending down to pet a dog, and it bit my nose," the king of Ferelden said after a moment, breaking into laughter. "My little she-Mabari."

He shot Flora a look that was both intimate and full of meaning, and she immediately blushed; memories from the previous night rising to the surface of her mind.

Teagan cleared his throat, sensing the atmosphere in the room heighten.

"Come on, lad," he said, not unkindly. "There's a hall full of guildsmen and ministers waiting for you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: SMUUUUUUUUUUT! I think I have been pretty restrained so far in this story on those grounds, lol. Still, I wanted to draw a little bit of a parallel with when Floristair shag for the first time in TLATL – on that occasion, Flora initiated it to comfort Alistair as he comes to accept the reality of becoming king. Now, Alistair is initiating it to comfort Flora after the loss of her spirits! 
> 
> also great job on the love bite to the nose, Flo, lol


	37. A Charade In The City

On the twenty-ninth day of Justinian, the people of Denerim began preparations for their new king's birthday. Although they were saving much of the best ale for the coronation in five days time, Alistair Theirin turning one-and-twenty was still an excuse for revelry. Merchants intended to close up shop early, taverns would stay open until late; in the wake of the grimmest year in Ferelden's memory, its people did not require much cause to celebrate.

Before the sun had fully risen over Revanloch's steeply tilted roof, Leliana found herself being shaken awake. The bard groaned, opening one eye to gaze into Flora's alarmed face.

"What's wrong, ma petite? Ugh, it's barely dawn!"

Flora rolled awkwardly over into the bard's half of the bed, the mattress dipping down with their conjoined weight. She gripped Leliana's shoulder, curling her fingers anxiously into the pink silk of the Orlesian nightgown.

"Leliana, it's Alistair's birthday tomorrow," Flora whispered. "He's going to be twoty-one."

From his position by the door, Knight-Captain Gannorn snorted quietly under his breath.

"Flor - ence, we have been over this – how many times?"protested the bard, exasperated. "It's not two-ty, it's twenty. You aren't 'one-ty' nine, are you?"

"It would make more sense if I was," Flora replied, thinking of sixty, seventy, eighty. A moment later she continued, impatiently. "Anyway. Don't people give each other… presents on their birthday?"

Such a concept was utterly foreign to Flora; in Herring, one's birthday was barely mentioned, let alone celebrated. The giving of gifts was unheard of.

Leliana nodded, stretching against the cushions with a yawn.

"Yes, it is customary to do so. On my twentieth birthday, one of my suitors gave me a hollow nightingale carved from jade. When one breathed into its wing-tip, a beautiful high-pitched note sounded from its beak."

"I need to get Alistair something," Flora breathed, horrified. "I can't be the only person to not give him a gift. Not a bird that you blow, though."

Leliana bit back a laugh, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of Flora's hair behind her ear.

"Ma fleur, you need not get him anything. Your love is more than enough, I suspect."

"No," Flora protested, looking about her as though a merchant might miraculously manifest in the corner of the room. "I need to go to the big market, in the city. There's lots of stalls there."

She slithered awkwardly down the end of the bed, her knee giving a twinge of protest at such unorthodox movement. Leliana sat up against the cushions, her brow creasing.

"Flora, you know the effect your presence has on the people. You can't just wander about the city anonymous, like you used to. There'll be a crowd five-deep."

Flora chewed on her lip, thinking hard. A seagull gave a piercing cry from outside, and its mate responded in equally high-pitched timbre.

"Then I won't go as Lady Cousland," she said at last, triumphantly. "I'll tie my hair back, and wear a hat. And a big coat."

"In summer?"

"Yes! And I'll go by myself, since everyone is used to me being escorted by guards and Templars – why are you laughing?"

Flora stopped mid-sentence, gazing in perplexion down at Leliana. The bard was cackling, one elegant hand beating out the rhythm of her chortles on the cushions.

"What's so funny?"

"The thought of you being allowed to wander the streets alone," retorted Leliana, wiping a tear from her pale eyelashes. "Such a circumstance is less likely than the Veil itself dissolving."

Flora fell into a sulky silence, and the bard relented a fraction.

"Alright," she murmured, sliding elegantly out from the blankets. "We will bundle you up beyond recognition, and I will escort you myself. Find all the clothing you can, ma crevette; I am going to send a quick raven to the city."

An hour later, Flora and Leliana were riding along the cliff-top path towards Denerim; the sea breeze ruffling the bard's short braids around her ears as she gripped the reins. They had not told the Knight-Commander where they were going – Leliana rightly assumed that the man would go apoplectic with fear at the lady Cousland making an unaccompanied journey under his purview – and, after much persuasion, they had left behind Flora's Templar guards.

"Don't fall off," Leliana directed sternly over her shoulder, feeling Flora shift around on the saddle behind her. "If any harm comes to you, Alistair will have my head on a pike alongside Thomas Howe's."

"Ooh, he would never," replied Flora automatically, keeping one arm wrapped around Leliana's taut stomach as she adjusted the buttons at her neck. "My head feels all sweaty. My entire body is sweaty."

This was the unavoidable consequence of having her hair bundled up beneath a wide-brimmed hat, and her body covered with a lumpen and unflattering wool jacket. Flora actually didn't mind the coat – the coarse fabric reminded her of Herring – but she would not have chosen to wear it during high summer, in normal circumstances. However, her distinctive oxblood hair and the swell of her belly – the two features that identified her mostly strongly as Lady Cousland – had been somewhat disguised.

The horse slowed its pace as they embarked on the steep gravel descent that led down to the estuary. The muddied expanse of the Alamarri plains stretched out to the west, vast and desolate. The walled city itself lay over the mouth of the estuary, the tributaries repurposed into canals.

"What are you doing?" Leliana asked, as Flora fidgeted and murmured quietly to herself, the brim of her hat bumping into the bard's neck.

"Sorting out what I've got to barter with," Flora replied, gripping Leliana's belt with one hand as she delved into her pocket with the other. "I don't have any money, hm. I do have a nice shiny rock. And some sea-shells."

Leliana snorted, guiding the horse carefully around a pothole.

"I'll give you the coin for anything you desire," the bard replied, trying not to laugh. "One of your brothers can repay me later."

Flora beamed at Leliana's shoulder-blades, watching the tightly-hewn muscle move beneath the thin fabric of the lay-sister's tunic.

"Mercy!"

"Merci."

Once they had reached the western gate, Flora found that her heart was beating exceptionally – and irrationally - fast. As always, there were guards stationed beneath the iron portcullis, checking all those who wished to enter Denerim for smuggled goods. Fortunately, a long caravan of Marcher traders was passing through just ahead of them; the guards were so preoccupied with searching the contents of each cart that they waved Leliana past without a second glance.

After they had passed into the city itself, Flora's attention was immediately captured by the newly embroidered banners hanging from each archway and balcony. They depicted a Theirin lion, rearing upwards, with the curving arc of a Cousland laurel wound about its flank and caught in its outstretched paw.

"Are they to mark Alistair and I's contribution to ending the Fifth Blight?" Flora whispered in Leliana's ear.

Leliana paused, then gave a soft and ambiguous grunt in response; not wanting to lie outright. The bard turned the horse towards a nearby stables, using her knee to guide it skilfully away from the crowd of chattering Marcher merchants.

"We'll leave the horse here and go on foot," she said, sharp eyes alighting on a figure leaning unobtrusively against the wall. "Ah, parfait."

The horse came to a halt near a water trough, and Leliana leaned forward to unclip the reins. Flora eyed the drop to the cobbles, wondering if she dared risk attempt the descent unaided – then a familiar voice came drifting from somewhere below; half-laughing and half-chiding.

"Don't even think about it, mi florita."

A pair of sinewy arms reached up, and Flora let herself slither down obediently into them, beaming up at Zevran as far as her outlandish headgear would allow. Zevran - who had just been hit in the nose by the hat's wide brim - let out a little snicker.

"Mi sirenita," he murmured, stepping backwards and surveying her. "You look like a sausage, all bundled up. Is this our bard's best attempt at subterfuge? I thought you had been trained in the courts and salons of Orlais, Leliana."

"I had limited means at my disposal!" Leliana retorted, flashing the elf an evil glance as she led the horse into the stables.

Zevran snickered, flicking the wide brim of Flora's hat with elegant, tattooed fingers. "Mi florita."

"You can't call me Flora," Flora told him sternly, her voice dropping on the last word. "When I'm in this cunning disguise."

The elf, whose eyebrows had shot upwards at the application of the word cunning, tried not to laugh.

"What should we call you then, nena?"

"Fred," said Flora vaguely after a moment, selecting a solid sounding northern name at random. "It starts with the same letter, doesn't it? F? Fuh?"

"Fred!" announced the elf, a grin curling the black marks scythed in ink across his cheeks. "My sweet little Federico. Hey, you have not yet given us the kiss of greeting. Don't cheat me, now!"

"Good luck getting under this hat," replied Flora, and the elf's dark eyes lit up like ignited coals.

"That is a challenge I readily accept, carina."

Zevran ducked his head beneath the wide, floppy brim and planted a kiss against Flora's cheek, his lips brushing the corner of her mouth. She smiled vaguely at him, turning her head in the direction of the market square. In the background, Leliana embarked upon negotiations for the cost of renting a horse-stall, batting her eyelashes at the young stable-hand. Not to be outdone, Zevran soon chimed in, and the dual charm offensive resulted in a bargain price.

Bard and elf turned around in triumph, only to realise in slight horror that their charge had wandered off into the crowds heading towards the markets. Leliana hissed a most un-Chantry-sister like string of curses under her breath, shooting an accusatory glower at Zevran.

"The one time you don't have your eyes glued to her…!"

"Relax," murmured the elf in response, swinging his sharp gaze across the crowd of traders, travellers and townsfolk. "She's just there, by the Chanter's board."

Flora had paused in the middle of the street; gazing around at the buildings and bridges absentmindedly as she tried to remember the fastest route to the market square. The sun had emerged from behind a thin screen of clouds, and she felt several beads of sweat rise to her forehead beneath the felt hat. The city was larger and noisier than the Herring native remembered; the sheer quantity of people bustling along the streets was a tad intimidating.

A trader with a handcart barked impatiently for Flora to move! from somewhere behind her left shoulder. She stepped hastily to one side; not quite far enough, as it transpired. The handle of the cart knocked into Flora's hip, hard enough to make her flinch.

"Ow!"

"Idiot boy, get out the way!"

The next moment, the trader's hand-cart came to an abrupt halt, the handles dropping to the mud as the trader drew in a shocked breath. Zevran had manifested in the road just ahead, his face contorted into a death's head smile without a shred of humour. Without moving his unblinking stare from the trader's face, the elf drew back the flap of his leathers to show several inches of gleaming, newly sharpened steel. With the colour draining rapidly from his face, the travelling merchant picked up the cart – fumbling the handles several times – and scuttled off into the midst of the crowds.

Flora, oblivious to the elf's voiceless threat, had turned to face an indignant Leliana. The bard drew her to one side, towards the wall of a boarded-up blacksmith's.

"Flor- Fred – I swear, if you run off one more time, we're going straight back to Revanloch!"

"Oh NO!"

"Ah, oui!" The bard relented a fraction, seeing the look of alarm on Flora's face beneath the wide-brimmed hat. "Are you alright, ma petite? The cart didn't knock you in the stomach?"

"No," replied Flora, as Zevran sidled towards them and slid his arm about her waist. "Just my hip. Which way is the market?"

They made their way over a crowded bridge towards the market square, following the main flow of the crowds. A mere five weeks after the end of the Blight, commerce had flourished once more within Ferelden's capital; mercantile companies putting out tentative roots to replace those routes that had been destroyed by war. Trade ships from other nations were dropping anchor in the estuary once more, importing exotic spices from Antiva and scent from Rivain.

Zevran and Leliana walked at either side of Flora, outwardly nonchalant but alert to the movements of every passer-by. A street urchin had eyed the deep pockets of Flora's coat with interest, fingers twitching; only to flee in terror as Leliana bared her teeth at him in primeval warning.

They had almost reached the great bridge that spanned Denerim's main canal – a placid tongue of the estuary wide enough for six barges to float parallel - when the sound of metallic bootsteps echoed from the streets ahead. This was accompanied by the yells of guards, their shouts echoing between the tall waterside warehouses.

"Make way for the king! Make way for King Alistair of Ferelden!"

Flora's initial, instinctive reaction of delight was quickly tempered. She shot a frantic glance towards Leliana, who looked equally alarmed at the prospect of Alistair discovering his pregnant mistress wandering the city streets with only two guardians.

"Quick," the bard hissed after a moment, as the sound of horses' hooves drew closer. "Back here."

The three of them ducked into the arched porch of a tavern, trusting in the sudden surge forward of the eager crowd to hide them. Leliana and Zevran had mastered the art of blending into the environment; the elf reached out to tug the brim of Flora's hat low over her face.

No more than a minute later, two columns of Royal Guard came marching over the bridge, pikes raised to form a protective barrier. The crowds obediently flattened themselves against the sides of the buildings, chattering excitedly to one another as they stood on their toes to gain a first glimpse of the king.

Flora, trapped in the tavern doorway with Leliana at her side and Zevran at her front, could barely see anything. Although she knew that the blood-connection between herself and Alistair had been severed with the purging of the taint, she still found herself cringing back against the doorway; irrationally worried about being spotted.

The excited babble reached a crescendo, cheers breaking out as the king's retinue approached. Fergus came first, gripping the reins in a leisurely hand and conversing with Teagan, who was riding at his side. A handful of Cousland retainers followed close in the teyrn's wake, their navy and olive Highever livery standing out distinctly against the crimson of the Guards' tunics.

The cheers escalated in volume as Alistair came into view, clad in tan, fur-edged leathers. The gold band rested on his temples, his head was held high, and he looked both authoritative and wholly at ease. Flora felt a sudden surge of pride in her best friend; she knew that Alistair was not yet entirely comfortable in his new status, yet he was simultaneously determined to make a good job of it.

The king raised his hand to acknowledge the cheers, leaning over to murmur in Eamon's ear. The sharp eyed Leliana noticed something strapped to Alistair's saddle, and she nudged Zevran pointedly.

"I see it," murmured the elf, whose eyesight was sharper still.

Flora, too, had been immediately drawn to this deeply familiar object, her eyes widening.

"It's a fishing pole!" she exclaimed excitedly, unable to keep her voice muted. "At last, after all my nagging, Alistair is finally embracing the delights of the rod!"

"I wish Alistair would embrace the delights of the rod," replied the elf with a lewd cackle.

"You know, he's never been fishing?" Flora continued, oblivious to Zevran's crude remark. "Better late than never!"

"Ssh!" hissed Leliana, shooting both of them a glower over her shoulder. "Keep your voices down!"

Sure enough, Flora's distinctive northern accent had cut through the excited babble of the crowd like a fish-gut knife. Atop his bay mare, Alistair paused mid-conversation, breaking off a reply to Eamon to glance around, perplexed.

Flora immediately shrank back into the doorway, trusting in the gloomy archway and wide-brimmed hat to mask her face. After a moment more, the king resumed his conversation with the arl; and the royal retinue gradually made their way further down the street and out of sight.

"Are you ready to go, ma petite?" Leliana asked at last, resting her fingers on Flora's elbow. "I thought for a moment that you were going to launch yourself towards Alistair's horse, waving your arms."

"Nooo ! Can you imagine! Let's go to the market."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Flora is not the sharpest blade in the armoury – Alistair has definitely taught her how to count beyond twenty (two-ty one, really?) and she sees the entwined Cousland-Theirin banners and doesn't realise that they are for her own upcoming wedding. Which is… in five days time, hahaha. But never fear, Alistair has bought a fishing rod – which is the first step in the traditional Herring-style proposal he was so worried about, lol… which involves the catching of a fish!
> 
> I always like a chapter involving a DISGUISE! Although it's not so much a disguise, as Flora wearing about eight layers worth of clothing and a big hat, haha.


	38. The Ring Test

Once the king's procession had passed, Flora, Zevran and Leliana made their way over the main bridge, past the fish-sellers and canal-side merchants, towards Denerim's market square. This was a large and sprawling space in the eastern part of the city, lined on all four sides with taverns, smiths and other assorted shopfronts. There was a diminutive Chantry – a fraction of the size of the Grand Chantry in the Square of the Bride – and a guard post located nearby.

A tangle of stalls were clustered without any semblance of order about the auctioneer's platform in the centre. Goods from all corners of Thedas were displayed for sale; raw silk in a rainbow spectrum of hues from Orlais; pungent baskets of spice from Antiva; as well as Surface dwarves showing off their admirable metalworking skills. One ginger-bearded smith was sending up showers of sparks as he hammered away in a demonstration of his craft; while a nearby cheese-maker sweated and hoped that his produce wouldn't melt in the forge heat. There were butchers gathered into a far corner, swatting flies away from swathes of dangling meat. A group of bowyers huddled nearby, irritated at being assigned a spot near the offal-filled gutters. An elven herbalist sat proudly atop a raised cart, amidst a plethora of oddly coloured glass vials. During the Blight, the market had only ever been half-full and limited to mostly Fereldan crafts, due to the drying-up of trade routes. Now it had swelled to almost full capacity, bustling and noisy; traders bellowing their wares over the hiss of the forge and snorting of animals.

Flora came to an abrupt halt at the western entrance, wide-eyed and shocked at the sheer _scale _of the market. Although she had seen such quantities of people before – her gathered armies – they had been ordered in strictly regimented rows. This – on the other hand - seemed naught but a chaotic _mass_ of people; loud, unruly and intimidating.

She glanced to her companions for a measure of reassurance. Leliana was eyeing the spectrum of raw silk hanging from the Orlesian dressmaker's stand, while Zevran was leaning towards the Antivan spice-stall as though physically drawn towards it. Flora looked down at her feet, berating furiously herself for her own nerves.

_You killed a dragon. Why are you scared of a crowd?_

Finally, Zevran noticed Flora's hesitation and reached out, sliding his fingers through her arm.

"It is as if the whole world was compressed into a single space_, no?_" he said, kindly. "Let us start at the outside and work our way inwards."

They began at the blacksmiths' quarter, avoiding the sparks flying from the collision of hammer against anvil as a dwarven smith sweated over his forge. Flora mulled over getting Alistair a piece of armour – a helm, or a breastplate – but then decided against it; not knowing the actual _measurements_ of a body she could describe as well as her own. Leliana lingered behind at the armourer's stand, testing a wickedly curved blade against the flat of her finger. The weapon met with her approval and she handed over a small pouch of coin, sliding the dagger up her sleeve unobtrusively.

"Come here, _Federico. _I want to show you something."

Zevran wound his fingers in Flora's own and pulled her across to a certain stall which the native Fereldans seemed to be avoiding. As they neared, Flora could understand why – the scent emanating from the wares was so overwhelming that it made her eyes water. It was not an _unpleasant _smell exactly, but _strong._

The elf ventured towards the stall, which was manned by a slender, dark haired merchant with fox-like features and a single golden nose-ring. The two men exchanged a few words in Antivan, before Zevran grinned and beckoned Flora forwards.

Baskets of ground spice were laid out in enticing array, in warm hues that ranged from bright ochre to brick red. Flora sniffed, mopping at her streaming eyes, as Zevran exulted the wondrous properties of the goods before her.

"Here, _carina, _we have the secret to what all Fereldan meals sorely lack – _flavour. _We have cinnamon, saffron, star anise, caraway, cardamom…"

"Arl Eamon had some cin- _cinnamon_ in his kitchen," Flora said, remembering a stew that she and Morrigan had once made, many months ago in the servants' quarters of Redcliffe Castle.

The elf wrinkled his nose, giving a little toss of the head.

"Well, his cook surely never _used_ it."

Zevran then leaned forwards, dipping the end of his little finger into the mound of ochre spice.

"_Nena, _stick your tongue out," he instructed, and Flora obediently did as requested.

The elf touched his fingertip to the end of her tongue, and she pulled a face, the corners of her mouth twisting.

"That's _cardamom, Federico. _How does it taste?"

"Strange," replied Flora unhelpfully after a moment, and the elf's dark eyes rolled like marbles.

"_Strange? _Here, try this one."

He scooped up a small pile of yellow spice on the end of another finger, holding it out expectantly. Flora ducked her head forward and tasted the powdery substance, her face immediately contorting in a grimace.

"What's _that?" _she demanded, wide-eyed. "It tastes like grass."

The elf wiped his fingers on his tunic, shaking his head from side to side regretfully.

"It is _saffron, carina, _and it is worth its weight in gold! Quite literally, in fact."

Flora gazed dubiously down at the baskets of pungent seasoning, her brow creasing.

"I don't think I'm going to get Alistair any spices," she said after a moment, then immediately regretted referring to the king so explicitly.

Sure enough, the Antivan trader's ears had pricked at the mention of Alistair by name, his shrewd gaze attempting to slide beneath the brim of Flora's wide and obscuring hat.

"Come on, _ma petite."_

Leliana manifested behind them, reaching to interweave her arm though Flora's elbow. Flora, who was now sweating both from heat and horror at her own foolish transgression, allowed the bard to lead her away. Zevran leaned forward to exchange a few words with the trader, the mellifluous rhythm of the Antivan tongue blending into the low background babble of the marketplace.

"I'm such an _idiot_," Flora bemoaned as Leliana led her towards a nearby row of stalls. "Why did I call Alistair, _Alistair? _I should have given him a false name. Alistair could have been… Albert. Or Aron. Anything other than _Alistair!"_

"Stop saying _Alistair_!" hissed back Leliana, noticing several more civilians turn their heads curiously towards them. "Honestly, _ma petite, _I recommend that you never consider the path of the _bard."_

_Not that you could ever hope to become one, with that singing voice, _Leliana thought grimly, but did not add.

After they had made another rotation of the market, Flora had still not found anything which she deemed to be acceptable. The sun had risen to midday; she was growing hotter, sweatier and more frustrated by the minute. Her weak knee was throbbing, the strapping dangling loose around the injured joint. Leliana and Zevran, conscious of the increasing temperatures, had plied Flora with frequent offerings from their water pouches; seeing her flushed and frustrated face beneath the hat.

"I can't find anything," she wailed as they paused beside a stall selling exotic fowl in cages. "I thought I would be able to get Alis – _him - _the perfect present, but there's _nothing _here!"

"Perhaps we should admit defeat and return to the monastery?" Leliana suggested hopefully, feeling beads of sweat rise to her own forehead. "We could arrive back in time for afternoon prayers if we leave now."

The corners of Flora's mouth turned down in dismay, and she dropped her gaze to her feet. Zevran glanced over his shoulder to ensure that nobody was paying a little _too _much attention; then hastened forward to reassure their young Cousland. Sliding a hand between the buttons of Flora's coat, he let his fingers rest on the protruding curve of her stomach.

"_Federico," _the elf murmured, wry and rueful. "You are already giving him the greatest gift of all. You could present Alistair with nothing more for the rest of his life, and he would still name you as his greatest benefactor."

"But baby isn't coming for three months," retorted Flora, belligerent and crimson in the face. "It'd be a very _late _birthday present. And I can't wrap it up and put a bow on it. Actually, I could probably put a bow on it. But still, it's_ too late!_ His birthday is tomorrow!"

After making another increasingly agitated circuit of the stalls, Flora selected a hunk of wax-paper wrapped Fereldan cheddar, accompanied by a pair of thick knitted woollen socks in an alarming shade of orange. Flora was not particularly enamoured with either present, but she was becoming tired and overheated after spending so much time on her feet, in direct sunlight.

"Arl Eamon will probably be getting Alistair a… a _minor island_ or something," she complained, feeling sweat running down the back of her neck as the merchant wrapped the socks in a thin skein of fabric. "I don't know how to do _presents. _I'm not good at it."

"Don't worry yourself," chided Zevran, lifting his water pouch to her lips and tilting it gently. "Take another sip, _nena. _You ought to get into some shade."

Flora obligingly took a gulp, water dribbling down the side of her mouth as she yawned mid-swallow_._

Just then, there came a minor commotion as a caravan of Surface dwarves passed close by, travel-worn and yet surprisingly jovial. They blocked the road to such an extent that Flora, Zevran and Leliana were forced to retreat; taking refuge by a silk merchant's stall. Flora glanced to one side, her attention caught by a flash of familiar forest green.

_I recognise that livery, _she thought to herself, spotting a portcullis badge sewn onto a doublet. _That's South Reach livery._

_Oh no!_

At that same moment, a piercing young female voice rang out near them; high and petulant.

"Papa, I need _three different colours _of silk for my gown."

"Why in the seven hells do you need _three colours?"_

"Because I _need _to have slashed sleeves and an underskirt in contrasting shades," retorted the voice, insistently. "Otherwise I won't be able to show my face at the coronation!"

"You'll be lucky to even _attend _the coronation, the way you're complaining, lass," came the blunt response. "Any more talk of _slashed sleeves _and I'll send you off to your aunt in Ostwick."

"_Papa-aaa!"_

"Retreat," hissed Leliana in Flora's ear, gripping her tightly by the elbow. "Let's go."

But they were still trapped by the column of dwarves, pinned next to the silk merchant's stall. Flora risked a glance over her shoulder, and looked directly into the dark eyes of the curious Habren Bryland. The young _arlina _blinked in shock, recognising Flora's flushed face beneath the wide brim of the hat.

"Lady Florence!" Habren exclaimed, loud and indiscreet. "What are you _doing _here? Where are your _guards?!"_

Flora gaped, lost for words. Leonas Bryland's head swung around, rapid as a Mabari smelling raw meat. The general's bearded face gave a single contortion of shock as he set eyes on Leliana, Zevran and the diminutive bundled-up figure between them.

"Florence?" he said, greying eyebrows shooting up into a receding hairline. "What are you doing here?"

His gaze swung around, expecting to see a contingent of Templars positioned in the immediate proximity. When they failed to manifest, he let out an astonished bark of disbelief.

"Maker's Breath, are there just the _three_ of you?"

"Being with Zevran and Leliana is like being with a whole troop of soldiers," retorted Flora, obstinately. _"Better."_

Rumours of Flora's identity had begun to spread outwards, like ripples expanding in a pond. Whispers darted between stalls, curious heads swivelling in the direction of the silk merchant.

Leonas noted both the increasing attention, and Flora's flushed, weary face, in a single instant. Reaching out, he took her elbow in a firm, parental gesture, steering her rapidly into the doorway of a nearby tavern. A battered sign swung overhead, depicting a large rat with a malevolent expression; the legend _The Gnawed Noble _scribed below.

"Come on, I've got a room here."

Flora, thoroughly overheated and exhausted, let the arl guide her into the tavern. The downstairs was lofty and high-ceilinged, with a gabled roof and ironwork candelabras. It being just past midday, only a handful of patrons sat drinking at the long tables; a barmaid yawned as she scrubbed limply at a stain on the woodwork.

Avoiding the curious stares of the other drinkers, the general nudged Flora in the direction of a narrow stair; tucked unobtrusively in the corner. Staying close on her heels, Leonas glanced over his shoulder to ensure that nobody unwanted had made pursuit. Fortunately, only Leliana, Zevran and a wide-eyed Habren were following in their wake; along with several retainers clad in South Reach livery.

The upper floor of the tavern consisted of two corridors branching in the cardinal directions, with numerous doorways spaced at intervals. Leonas steered the yawning Cousland towards the far end of the corridor, whilst simultaneously removing a key from his sleeve.

The key granted entrance to a reasonably sized room, with exposed rafters and carved oak décor. A four-poster bed, sparsely hung with undyed wool curtains, rested squatly in the centre of the chamber. The shutters had been pulled back over the windows to let in several rays of watery sunlight, and a single stained tapestry of a wounded Mabari decorated the southern wall.

"Here," the arl said firmly, guiding a shuffling Flora towards the bed. "Rest for a while; I'll have something to drink sent up."

"Thank you," mumbled Flora, sitting on the edge of the lumpen mattress and yawning widely as Zevran and Leliana entered.

The arl gave a low grunt in response, steering his gaping daughter firmly out of the room. Before exiting himself, he paused to exchange a few quiet words with Leliana and Zevran.

Once the door had settled back into its frame, the bard went to draw the shutters closed over the windows. Zevran advanced towards the bed, perching neatly on the mattress beside Flora.

"_Mi sirenita, _how are you going to cope with the heat when we visit Antiva City?" he crooned, removing the hat and peering at Flora's flushed and sweaty face. "You are as red as _un poco tomate."_

Flora yawned once more in response, unsure whether she was overheating due to the summer warmth, or her own fluctuating temperature. The baby seemed to have seized control from within; taking command of various functions of her body.

"At least I match my hair," she mumbled, the words blurring together as they drifted from her mouth. The elf smiled at Flora, reaching out to divest her of the many coverings bundled about her body.

"_Ah, _how many layers has Leliana wrapped you in?" he exclaimed after a moment, having unbuttoned a coat and removed two thick tunics. "No wonder you were sweating like the proverbial _whore in a Chantry."_

"I had to disguise her shape," the bard retorted from the doorway, taking delivery of some watered-down ale from a blinking servant. "A redhead with a swollen belly is bound to draw more attention."

Flora reached up her arms as Zevran pulled the final tunic over her head. Now barefoot in breast-band and smalls, she slumped back against the cushions; dragging a palm over her sweaty face. Zevran manfully managed to restrain himself from making a gleeful comment on the swollen bust that now- for the first time in Flora's life - required a supporting garment. Instead, he bowed his head and kissed Flora on the top of her bare foot, running his thumb affectionately over her toes.

"Take a few sips, _ma crevette," _instructed Leliana, crossing to the bed and holding a flagon of watered-down ale to Flora's lips. Flora obediently swallowed, grimacing as the liquid spilled in a pale golden rivulet down her chin.

"Have you got Alistair's cheese?" she asked, anxiously. "And the socks?"

"_Oui," _replied Leliana softly, lifting the tray and carrying back it over to the dresser. "Do not fret."

Flora leaned back against the cushions, a frown creasing her smooth brow neatly in two. Her knee was throbbing painfully, and the little creature in her belly was nudging against her kidneys.

"I can't believe I need _naps _now," she said, mildly disgusted with herself. _"Sleeping _in the middle of the day! Nobody- nobody had better tell anyone from Herring about this, or… or my reputation will be ru - _rui"_

Flora trailed off in the middle of her sentence, losing her train of thought as sleep rose like a dark tide to claim her waking mind. She turned her cheek into the cushions, each individual eyelash suddenly a leaden weight. The noises of the market faded into the background as she drifted into a quiet and dreamless sleep, fingers curled into the blankets.

* * *

An immeasurable amount of time later, Flora awoke with the uncanny sensation that somebody was watching her. She could almost _feel_ their curious gaze prickling against her skin, soft and intrusive. Opening her eyes in the strange half-light of the shuttered room, she turned her head to the side to see Habren Bryland sitting beside the bed.

The arl's daughter must have taken more after her deceased mother in appearance. She had a slender, pointed face and thick, light brown hair bundled into an uncomfortable – but fashionable – style about her ears. The piercing, inquisitive stare, however, was clearly inherited from Leonas; and it was this that was turned on Flora now. Leliana and Zevran were conversing quietly in the corridor, their voices filtering through the wood.

The young arlina was gazing surreptitiously at Flora's skin, her eyes travelling over the pale sunburst scars spread across Flora's hip, shoulder and thigh.

"Are those from the battle with the dragon?" Habren asked, realising that she had been spotted and deciding to brazen it out.

Flora nodded, turning over her hand to show a similar white marking on the flat of her palm. Habren inhaled curiously, fingers twitching at her side.

"Can I – can I touch it?"

Letting her head sink back against the pillows Flora gave a small grunt of assent; used to such inspection. The girl used her fingertip to trace the outline of the sunburst on Flora's thigh, her face transfused with fascination.

As Habren did so the little creature awoke within Flora, nudging a shoulder into her. She let her hand drift down to the mound of her stomach, wondering what exactly it was doing within the warm, cramped darkness of her belly.

"Did it hurt?"

Flora blinked, reluctantly tearing her thoughts from the baby.

"Did _what _hurt? Oh," she realised, letting her fingers move to the scar on her hip. "No. It didn't _hurt_, not exactly. I don't remember much about the dragon."

Now the young noblewoman's eyes had drifted to the uncovered mound of Flora's stomach. Fascinated, Habren reached up to press a finger against the warm, taut skin.

"One of my handmaids caught with child once," she said, eventually. "She wasn't married, either. My father didn't get rid of her, but he _did_ send her to work in the kitchens."

Flora – who was from a village where people only got married on the rare occasion that a Chantry priestess passed through – suppressed a snort.

"Oh, well," she replied mildly, for want of anything else to say. "I don't think anyone is going to send me to work in the kitchens. I'd eat all the food."

Habren was silent a moment, lost in thought.

"So you've lain with the king?"

"He wasn't the king when we first… lain - _laid_ together," Flora replied, wondering if she had used the correct grammar. "But, yes."

Habren nodded slowly, vaguely familiar with Alistair's unusual journey to the throne from overhearing snippets of her father's conversations.

"You're not that much older than me," the arlina continued, her brow furrowing. "Didn't you worry about your _reputation_, lying with someone who you weren't married to?"

Flora wanted to laugh, but didn't; aware of how acutely _different _she was to this girl who was so similar in age.

"Well," she replied instead, diplomatically. "We thought we were going to_ die, _so… no."

For a moment she shivered, recalling the thin undercurrent of desperation that had run through their lovemaking during the Blight.

_We'd pitch our tent next to land laid waste by the Darkspawn; then spend all night writhing together on the bedroll, as though we could bring some life back to the tainted soil with our efforts._

"Did it _hurt?"_ Habren asked, with the curiosity of the permanently sheltered. "When you… laid together?"

"The first time, it did," Flora replied, honestly. "And the second. Then… not so much."

Habren turned wide eyes on her, dark eyebrows shooting into her hairline.

"You _kept doing it? _How many times?"

"Um," said Flora, vague. "Quite… a few more times."

"More than _five times?"_

"Mm, I think so."

Habren looked mildly scandalised, and Flora shot her a slightly wary look. In Herring, it was not an unusual thing for young people to pair off with each other; with thoughts of marriage far from their minds. Still, she reasoned to herself, perhaps there were different expectations for girls from noble families.

Leonas' daughter looked about to question Flora in more intensive detail, then her attention was caught by a faint flicker of movement from the taut, lumpen belly. The girl's dark Bryland eyes widened in fascination, and she abruptly changed her course of questioning.

"I wonder if the baby is a boy or a girl? Do you have any gut feeling?"

Flora thought for a moment, concentrating on the little creature lodged within her. Truthfully, she had thought of the child as _it _for such a long time, that it was startling to even envision the child as possessing gender.

"No," she replied, vaguely. "I have no idea. It could be _anything."_

Habren shot her a surreptitious glance, her eyes igniting like coals as she lowered her voice.

"There _is _a way," she whispered, portentously. "I overheard my old maid talking about it. A test you can do to determine the baby's sex. Do you have a ring?"

Flora slid the gold Cousland band from her little finger, as Habren pulled out a loose thread from the blanket, snapping it loose. The arlina then tied the thread in a knot around the ring, letting it dangle over Flora's stomach.

It hung still for several moments, and both girls eyed it; Habren excited and Flora dubious.

"I don't understand - " the latter started, and then Leonas' daughter let out an excited squeak, making a gesture.

"_Look!"_

The ring had begun to swing gently from side to side, swaying like a pendulum at the end of the thread. Flora gazed at it, transfixed.

"What does that mean?"

"A boy," replied Habren, confidently. "Back and forth means a boy, circles means a girl."

"_Superstition!_ It's just the draught."

Leliana had entered the room, stealthy as a shadow; Zevran close at her heels.

"It's _not," _insisted the arl's daughter, her features infused with stubbornness. "It's an accurate test."

The bard made a little dismissive noise through her nostrils, crossing the room to crouch beside the bed.

"How are you feeling now, _ma petite? _A little less hot and bothered, I hope."

Flora nodded, smiling up at her companions as she pushed the blankets away from her legs.

"Mm, a lot better. I had a good nap."

"Glad to hear it, _mi sirenita," _added Zevran softly, his dark eyes settling on her face like birds coming to rest. "And, contrary to our Chantry devotee, _I_ believe that the old superstitions have some truth in them."

Just then, there came a slight commotion at the door. Arl Leonas had entered, seen Flora clad in her smallclothes; and collided with the doorframe in his haste to retreat.

"Arl Leonas," called Flora earnestly after him, clutching the blanket to her thighs. "Come back, come back – I don't mind. Honestly, Finian told me that pretty much _everyone _saw me naked when I was unconscious after the battle!"

Stifling an embarrassed cough, the arl ducked back inside the room; keeping his eyes firmly averted to the ceiling.

"Florence, I'll see you safely back to the monastery," Leonas stated, in a tone that brokered no dissent. "It's sunset, and Alistair will be making his own way to Revanloch soon. He'll worry himself sick if he finds you gone."

Zevran cleared his throat, lightly. The elf had wandered over to the window and was peering out, one golden eyebrow firmly raised.

"That might be trickier than anticipated," he murmured, wryly. "It seems as though your disguise was not quite as effective as we hoped, _Federico. _There's a sizeable crowd gathered outside."

Leliana let out a muffled curse under her breath; nostrils flaring.

"Well, none of us have any horses nearby. It seems we must _beat _our way through these nosy citizens!"

Slightly alarmingly, the lay sister seemed rather excited at this prospect. Flora eyed her beadily from the bed, while the arl hastened to intervene.

"No need for that – there's another exit," Leonas interrupted, abruptly. "This tavern's got a reputation as a hideaway for nobles to rendezvous with their… partners. Hence, the need for discretion. And back passages."

Zevran let out a low cackle, reaching down to retrieve one of Flora's discarded shirts from the floorboards.

"Perhaps we will not need to bundle you up _quite_ so like a sausage this time, _eh, carina?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: The ring test is a Medieval superstition from England – I don't know if it's in other countries as well? It's just anold wives' tale… but there is some truth in the old tales ;) I wanted to have a bit of a contrast here between Flora and Habren Bryland (I love taking super minor NPCs and expanding their roles!) – since they're both within a few years of each other in age. Yet Flora is acutely aware of how different she is from Habren – both because of her unusual upbringing in Herring, and because of what she's been through.


	39. The King's Birthday

With the assistance of Leonas, they managed to make their escape from the city without attracting too much attention. Hastening along the cliff-top path towards the seaside monastery, Flora and her companions were able to reach Revanloch a half candle before the king's retinue passed beneath the main gate. By this point, Flora was so coated with sweat that she felt a little like an eel; skin slick and hair stuck to her forehead.

Alistair had arrived in the guest chamber a short time later, breathless from taking the steps two at a time. He burst into the room, a beam already spreading across his face; only to find Flora submerged in the bathtub, wet hair plastered over her breasts, blinking at him with limpid eyes. She smiled, delighted, then reached out a dripping hand.

"Alistaaair!"

The king gazed at his mistress for all of three seconds, before dismissing both Templars with a terse instruction. Kicking the door shut, one hand was already working at the buttons of his breeches as he strode across the room towards her.

Some time later, the blankets lay on the floor in a damp tangle, the cushions knocked halfway across the room. Alistair leaned back against the window, seated on the low bench with his best friend straddling his thighs. Ropes of damp hair hung loose around Flora's face; a fur from the bed was wrapped around her bare shoulders, and her own arms were wound around Alistair's neck. He beamed at her dazedly, still wreathed in post-coital languor.

"My darling girl."

"Alistair," replied Flora, who was not in the habit of using pet names.

Alistair gazed at her for a moment, wondering how exactly to phrase his next words.

"Lola, it's my birthday tomorrow," he said at last, softly. "I'll be- "

"Twenty one," she said, inwardly proud of herself for not saying _twoty. _"I know. I got you a present in the market."

_Oh, that was meant to be a secret! You lobster brain._

Alistair shot Flora a suspicious look, but decided not to pursue the matter. Instead, he continued on the path he had set himself, taking a deep breath.

"I just wanted to say… how much the people value you, Flora. You know they call you the _Flower of Ferelden?"_

Flora looked nonplussed, unsure how this corresponded to Alistair turning a year older. Still, she let him continue; a faint line creasing itself through her brow.

"Yes, I know," she replied, adjusting her position on his lap. The king inhaled unsteadily, reaching out to trace the line of her jaw with his thumb.

"Anyway, I wanted you to know how… how important you are, Lo. Even though you're not the Warden anymore; you're still the _Hero of Ferelden. _The people look to you and they see – well_. _They see beauty, and they see new life, and they see… _hope."_

Increasingly confused, Flora tilted her face into Alistair's hand; rubbing her cheek against his palm.

"That's good," she replied amiably, reaching up to slide her fingers between his. Kissing his knuckles, she clasped their conjoined hands to her breast. "I want them to be hopeful. The Blight is over, and Ferelden needs to recover, and get strong again. In case anyone takes advantage."

_Duc _Gaspard's supercilious face flashed into Flora's mind and she scowled, shifting against Alistair's thighs as the fur slithered down onto the floorboards.

"_Exactly! _Exactly, Flo," the king replied, feverishly. "Ferelden's borders need to be reinforced, the Royal Army rebuilt- "

He cut himself off abruptly, smiling.

"But enough of that. Tomorrow is about _you, _my love."

"About _me?" _she said, bemused. "But it's _your _birthday. Mine is the day after."

Alistair made no reply, but ducked his head to press a long and lingering kiss against her mouth.

* * *

The morning of Alistair's birthday, Flora awoke even earlier than her customary dawn rising-time. The guest chamber was still muted in shades of grey, the last fading stars visible through the parted curtains. Yawning, Flora reached out to pull the blanket up to Leliana's shoulders; passing an affectionate hand over the bard's sleep-rumpled head.

Aware that she would not be able to get back to sleep, Flora was about to clamber out of bed when she felt a ferocious little kick from within her belly.

"Ow," she said out loud, astonished at the vigour of her little creature. "Good morning to you, too."

Alert to the slightest sound of distress, Knight-Captain Gannorn immediately raised his head.

"Is all well, my lady?"

Flora nodded, patting her stomach in an effort to calm the baby down.

"Mm," she whispered, conscious of her sleeping companion. "It just kicked me right in the bladder."

The Knight-Captain relaxed a fraction, only too aware of the consequences if anything ill-fated should happen to the king's expectant mistress under his watch. Flora smiled at him, then clambered ungracefully out of bed. Wandering barefoot across the floorboards, she lowered herself to the window bench and drew the curtains fully open, peering out at the gradually lightening sky. The ghosts of stars were still visible, though veiled in dawn cloud. Below, the Amaranthine ocean was as still as a millpond, mirroring the heavens with crystalline accuracy. In the distance, a thin sliver of sun was just cresting the horizon; bright as a fire-opal.

Flora tucked her feet beneath her to keep them warm – dawn on a Fereldan summer morning was still chilly – and watched the sun rise upwards with slow languidity. The ocean was far more placid and genteel than her wild, tempestuous Waking Sea, yet it was still beautiful enough to take her breath away. Starved for any glimpse of saltwater for the four years she had been in the Circle; Flora was not about to complain.

"Happy _twenty-one_ birthday, brother-warden," she said to herself as the sun broke free of the sea; sailing upwards with renewed vitality.

"Twenty-first," corrected the Templar quietly from behind her.

"Twenty-_first," _repeated Flora, brow creasing.

The Knight-Captain soon came to regret his correction of Flora's numeracy. The young Cousland proceeded to spend the next hour practising her counting out loud, a painful and laborious process which invariably ended up in a tangle of mistakes somewhere between _threety _and _fourthty-first._

Leliana woke as the bell sounded for the breaking of fast, her stretch accompanied by a small, distinctly Orlesian squeak. Opening her eyes, she swept the chamber in a single, appraising glance. Flora was sitting cross-legged on the window bench, reciting what appeared to be a string of painfully inaccurate numbers. The Templar was standing close by the door (as though desperate to escape), and a vein was twitching on his forehead.

"Six-and-four one, six-and-four-two, six-and-fifty-tenth, _eight million- _"

"Andraste's Mercy," breathed the bard as she rose to her feet, astounded at such a blatant lack of understanding. "What nonsense is this, _ma crevette?"_

"It's not nonsense," retorted Flora, secretly delighted that Leliana had awoken in time for breakfast. "I'm educating myself."

"I wouldn't call that _education," _Leliana murmured in response, peering at her reflection in the dresser mirror. "I'd call it a… _numerical massacre. _And I _saw_ that, you little minx!"

This was in response to Flora pulling one of her least attractive faces in Leliana's direction.

Flora cackled, leaning back against the window and resting a hand on her stomach, warm and firm beneath the striped pajama shirt. She watched Leliana wash her face in the basin; the bard adding several drops of lavender oil into the water before splashing it over her face.

"It's Alistair's birthday today."

"_Oui_, _ma petite. _He won't be down until this evening – poor thing is trapped in a council meeting all day. Fancy that, on your _birthday! _One's birthday should be celebrated, not _punished."_

Flora couldn't even remember what had happened on her last birthday, but was reasonably certain it involved getting expelled from class and cleaning corridors – the usual pattern of her Circle day.

"Alistair is twenty one now," she said, half to herself, as Leliana requested a bathtub and busied herself with towels. "It's the last day of Justinian – _last day of red-fin snapper season – _so he's now a year older."

"_Oui," _confirmed the bard, now riffling through the dresser.

"So, if he's twenty one, and I'm still nineteen, does that mean that he's now _two_ years older than me?"

"What?! No! Your mathematics is truly terrible, _ma petite."_

This debate continued even after a filled bath was brought up; Leliana bathing first to take the heated edge off the water.

"One, two," Flora counted stubbornly, perched on a stool beside the bathtub. "There's _two years _between nineteen and twenty one."

"But you're twenty tomorrow," countered the bard, massaging a soapy lather into her hair. "My grown-up girl. Pass me the pomegranate oil – the red one."

Flora duly passed over the crimson glass vial, wrinkling her nose as Leliana uncapped the pungent scent.

"I wonder what Alistair's doing now?" she breathed, trailing a wistful hand in the water. "I wish he could come sooner than this evening. I want to give him his present."

Leliana smiled to herself, passing slender fingers one final time through her hair before rising to her feet; water streaming in rivulets down her finely-hewn body.

"It means we've got plenty of time to get you ready," the Orlesian replied, slightly evasively. "There'll be a lot of eyes on you later."

Flora wondered briefly if the fumes of pomegranate oil had addled the bard's brain – it was _Alistair's _birthday, not her own.

"All eyes should be on _you,_" she said instead, gazing up and down Leliana's figure with naked envy as she unbuttoned her pajama shirt. "Your body is like a… a statue. I could _chop fish _on your stomach."

Leliana, who was duly proud of the well-hewn muscle that had taken years to hone, smiled and gave an Orlesian shrug.

Once bathed and dried, Leliana – much to her own surprise - managed to cajole Flora into wearing a sundress. This laudable feat was accomplished after the bard had pointed out how much _cooler _the white linen dress would be than Flora's usual breeches: it was only knee-length, Flora could wear her usual boots, and it was sleeveless. After a small amount of persuasion Flora acquiesced; Leliana gleefully tightened the laces at the bodice while the young Cousland gazed distractedly out of the window.

"Should I put the presents _in_ something?" Flora asked distractedly, rubbing the heel of her hand over her stomach as Leliana went to retrieve the hairbrush. "I've never given anyone a birthday present before. Should I _wrap _them in cloth? What do they do in Orlais?"

"I once received a mirror as a birthday gift from an admirer," the bard replied, drawing the band loose from Flora's hair and spreading it loose over her shoulders. "It came in a case made from turquoise enamel, embedded with flecks of gold and shards of glass in the pattern of a rose."

Flora looked dubiously around the Revanloch guest chamber, grimacing as the brush worked through her tangled mass of hair.

"I'm not sure where I could get one of those at short notice," she replied, solemnly. "And it sounds like quite a _fancy _box for cheese and socks."

Leliana laughed, placing the brush to one side and reaching for a silken hair-ribbon.

"I don't think you ought to worry about wrapping your present," she murmured, tying a bow at the nape of Flora's neck. "I think that Alistair will appreciate it very much, with trappings or without. There we go, _ma petite. _Very sweet. Almost _virginal, _actually."

Flora eyed her reflection in the mirror, warily.

"I'm not sure how virginal I look with this belly," she replied, smoothing fingers in an absentminded circle over the rounded swell. "Thank you for helping me. I owe you more than I can say."

"You're welcome, _ma petite."_

Leliana's voice wobbled in a deeply uncharacteristic fashion partway through her reply.

Flora, who was trying to drape Alistair's socks in a decorative manner over the cheese, turned rapidly in astonishment. To her alarm, tears shone in the corners of Leliana's eyes; the bard's pink-painted lips trembling.

"Leliana?"

Having never seen their smooth Orlesian bard so nakedly tearful; Flora scuttled immediately to her, anchoring Leliana about the waist and drawing her down to sit on the bed.

"Leliana," she breathed once again, reaching into the bard's pocket to retrieve a silk handkerchief. "What's wrong? What's _wrong? _Tell me!"

Flora dabbed the silk handkerchief beneath Leliana's watering eyes, her own gaze threaded with alarm.

"Has someone done something to upset you? Tell me who it is! I'll go and _beat them up."_

Leliana smiled, shaking her head and sniffing the remainder of her tears back; patting cool fingers against her flushed cheeks to calm them.

"I'll batter them with driftwood, I'll take a fishing rod, and shove it- "

"_Non, non- _I am not upset, _ma crevette. _No need for any Herring-style retribution, though I do appreciate the offer."

Flora blinked, mildly confused; the handkerchief still clutched between her fingers. The bard let out a little laugh, briskly wiping her eyes and taking a deep inhalation of air.

"Then _why_ were you crying?" demanded Flora, brow furrowed with indignation.

"Oh – it is nothing," Leliana replied evasively; her duck-egg blue eyes sparkling. "It's just been… an honour to serve you, _ma fleur. _And it will _continue _to be an honour, and a privilege. Ferelden will be very lucky to have you as its... to have _you."_

Flora eyed her dubiously, oblivious to the bard's oblique reference.

_She is Orlesian, though. They do have some strange habits and customs._

Shaking her head, the king's mistress leaned forward and kissed Leliana rather bemusedly on the cheek; deciding not to press her any further.

* * *

The morning drew on, languid and lazy. The closing of Justinian had resulted in a typically Fereldan summer day, the sun low and the sky clouded; resulting in a thick, soupy humidity. Flora had waited for several hours on the window bench, peering across at the cliff-top path despite Leliana's warning that the council meeting was sure to last for several hours yet.

The lunch-gong rang; they ended up dining in the main hall with the rest of the Templar initiates. Flora had grown so accustomed to their curious stares that she now barely noticed them. A source of more interest was the obvious disquiet of the Knight-Commander and the Grand Mother of the Chantry; who were seated at her side but could not sit still. They whispered to each other throughout the meal, darting eyes at the Cousland as she ate her stew.

Flora tore a hunk of rye bread apart with her fingers, uncomfortably aware of their surreptitious glances.

"Why do they keep looking at me and _whispering?_" she hissed from the corner of her mouth towards Leliana, dipping the bread into the vegetable pottage. "They're going to make me spill soup over myself! White is a very _stressful_ colour to eat in."

"Lady Cousland?"

It was the chief Templar, clearing his throat while avoiding looking her directly in the eye. Flora turned her head and stared at him, her brows drawing together.

"Yes?"

"Just so you know – the Chantry will be kept empty for you and King Alistair to meet later. I'll ensure that the recruits are kept away – nobody will disturb you. You'll have as much privacy as is… as is needed for the deed to be done."

Flora blinked at him, nodded wordlessly; then immediately put her mouth to Leliana's ear.

"The Templar is giving me and Alistair permission to_ do it _in the Chantry later!" she whispered, incredulous. "Do you think he has sunstroke?"

Leliana dropped her spoon into her soup, letting out a squawk of indignation.

"That is most definitely _not _what he meant, Florence Cousland, you perverted little troll!"

"Ha! _Hahaha."_

They returned back to the chamber, where Flora perched herself once more on the window bench. The sun edged itself lower towards the western horizon; she heaved herself up high on the cushions and squinted along the cliff-top path. It was deserted, save for a group of merchants travelling in a small caravan. She bit at her lip, glancing once more at the forlorn little pile of socks and cheese on the bench beside her.

The heat was growing muggier, the air thick and soup, Flora sensed both her energy and spirits wilting. Strands of hair were falling out of the silk ribbon, she could feel herself sweating into the white linen sundress, and the baby was shifting irritably in her stomach.

"Do you… do you think he's coming?" Flora asked at last, directing the plaintive question over her shoulder towards Leliana. "Maybe they're having a party. Maybe he's partying _with winches."_

The bard – who had been reading a new and controversial biography of Andraste's life – immediately placed the tome on the blankets and sought to reassure the hormonal young Cousland.

"Nonsense, _ma petite. _He'll be here, I promise you. Come and lie down, you look exhausted."

Leliana patted the mattress beside her; Flora obediently clambered off the bench and went to join the bard on the bed. Curling up onto her side, she rested her cheek against the cushion and yawned; hot and irritable.

"Close your eyes, just for a moment," cajoled Leliana softly, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Flora's ear. "Just for a _few minutes."_

Within moments, Flora was dead to the world; snoring face-down in the cushions with her swollen torso twisted awkwardly to one side. Leliana picked up the troublesome biography once again, her brow creasing with a mixture of disapproval and reluctant fascination.

The next thing that Flora knew, a gentle hand was placed on her shoulder; a familiar Orlesian whisper directed into her ear.

"_Ma crevette: _I see the royal party approaching. Alistair is here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Alistair's not here yet because it's taken him literally six hours to catch the fucking fish for Flora's precious Herring-style proposal! Lol. Oh well, the moment is almost here! Flora is completely oblivious (as usual), both to Leliana's sentimentality, and the Templar Commander offering some privacy for Alistair to propose in. HE IS NOT GIVING YOU PERMISSION FOR #CHANTRYSHAG, FLORA.


	40. Alistair Presents Flora With A Fish

"Alistair is here."

Leliana's words hooked into Flora's mind, pulling her from a soft, dreamless darkness. Delighted at the arrival of her best friend, the youngest Cousland swung her legs from the bed and clambered gracelessly upright. Sensing that half of her hair had joyfully escaped the silken bow, she briefly debated pausing to adjust it before abandoning the notion and heading straight for the door.

"Florence!" called the bard, in mild alarm. "You have forgotten your boots. _And Alistair's present!"_

Flora shot back inside the guest chamber to retrieve the cheese and socks; clearly not willing to spare the time to also retrieve her footwear. Leliana, with a little sigh escaping her throat, stooped to pick up the boots before following Flora out into the passageway.

The sun was just beginning to lower itself into the horizon as the Royal party approached the crumbling main gate. Revanloch was swarming with people; the sunset heralded the end of the day's training, and initiates filled the corridors with chatter as they headed towards the mess hall. Chantry sisters issued stern reprimands from classroom doorways; reminding the adolescent Templars _not to run in the passageways! _and _keep quiet in the Maker's House!_

Flora wove her way impatiently around the excitable initiates as they wandered in clumps down the corridors. Fortunately, they tended to scatter before her; as a result of the Knight-Commander promising fifty extra hours of chores to any recruit who dared to waylay the _Hero of Ferelden._

She made her way into the main wing of Revanloch, now knowing the route through the musty labyrinth by heart. Passing the imposing doors of the Chantry – not yet open for evening prayers – she ducked her way into the kitchen garden; through which lay a short cut to the main courtyard.

Chatter and sounds of general consumption drifted out from the windows of the mess hall overhead. Struck by a sudden compulsion, Flora was unable to stop herself from halting in the middle of the small allotment; plunging a hand into the dirt and pulling free a half-formed raw potato. Biting into the dirt-covered vegetable, she continued determinedly on her way.

The torches were being lit as Flora emerged into the main courtyard, slightly out of breath from her exertions. The braziers flared into life one after the other atop the ramparts; illuminating the enclosed space with soft ochre light. Reflected flames moved across the faces of those already gathered on the cobblestones; of which there were almost two dozen.

Flora stopped abruptly in the entranceway, brow creasing in sheer confusion. A collection of Ferelden's most powerful nobility were clustered expectantly at both sides of the gate; she could see Arl Bryland, both Guerrin brothers, her_ own_ brothers and a handful of other minor banns she vaguely recognised from the Landsmeet.

Scattered amongst the nobles were her companions – Wynne was clutching her staff, Oghren was grinning from ear to ear; even Sten stood to one side, sporting a faint scowl. Zevran was leaning against the crumbling gatepost, his features carefully arranged into a rather fixed-looking smile.

Flora's gaze was drawn next to a stocky, grey-bearded figure standing near Fergus, and her heart gave a palpable throb.

"Pa," she whispered, now utterly bewildered. "_Papa._ What are you doing here?"

Her foster-father issued a typical Herring grunt, jerking his chin wordlessly towards the centre of the courtyard. Hearing Leliana and her Templar guardians emerging from the doorway behind her, Flora followed her dad's gesture.

Alistair was standing at his horse's side, retrieving something wrapped in brown paper from the saddlebag. He was clad in the full rustic garb of a native Fereldan king – fur-trimmed leather, the spiked gold band firmly atop his ahead – and yet, despite these trappings of authority, Flora thought that she could see his hands shaking as he stepped back from the horse.

Her best friend turned towards her and she blinked, astonished at the strange, fervent _mien _cast across his features. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes fever bright and flashing like a storm at sea as they focused on her. A tangle of emotions fought each other across his face; a mixture of apprehension, determination and nausea all seeking dominance.

Flora eyed him dubiously, clutching the half-eaten potato in one hand and clasping his birthday gift to her chest. For some reason, she felt her own heart escalate to a giddy patter; thundering against her ribcage like an untamed horse on the gallop.

"I can't wait," Alistair threw desperately over his shoulder towards Eamon. "I _can't. _I just need to do it now, I'm going to just ask her – "

He strode across the cobblestones, those in his way parting like hay yielding to a harvester's scythe.

Flora, now thoroughly bemused, watched Alistair come to an abrupt halt several yards before her. The brown paper package was clamped beneath his arm; and she could see beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead, despite the increasing coolness of the evening. Out of the corner, Flora could see Finian grinning like a madman, whispering excitedly to a smiling Fergus.

"Flora," Alistair croaked, his voice oddly raw and constricted. "I stand before you, not as a king, but as any other man."

He reached up as though in a dream, lifting the crown from his head and letting it drop to the cobbles with a dull, metallic clang. Flora blinked at him in sheer astonishment, half-wondering what to do with the potato in her hand.

"A man who loves you more than… than the fish love water," Alistair continued desperately, the pre-planned words coming out in a tangled rush. "More _deeply _than the Amaranthine Ocean."

Flora continued to gaze at him, suddenly grateful for her face's natural solemnity. Alistair pressed determinedly onwards, face blazing with a conviction far brighter than the braziers on the ramparts overhead.

"You're my best friend, my sister-warden, the kindest and bravest person I know. And each time I see you, it takes my _breath _away how beautiful you are."

Flora felt the little creature give an impatient kick, and she dropped a distracted hand to rub over her belly. Alistair followed the movement of her fingers, a distinct tremor running beneath his words.

"Lo, I fell in love with you the first night you slept in my arms," he said, odd and unsteady. "And I've… I've wanted to ask you_ this_ since we were at South Reach."

Flora swallowed, her heart crashing so hard against her ribs that she worried for their integrity. His face now set in grim purpose, Alistair retrieved the paper-wrapped object from beneath his arm, pulling loose the twine with trembling, impatient fingers.

Once the wrapping had fallen loose, the king knelt on the cobbles before Flora; holding up a mid-sized salmon in his outstretched hands. He lifted his hazel eyes earnestly to hers, the green flecks standing out like shards of bottle-glass in the torchlight.

"Flora of Herring_ and_ Highever," he blurted, the words emerging raw, impassioned. "You're my best friend, my lover – the mother of my child. I…. I _need_ you as my wife. Will you marry me?"

There was silence for a long moment, during which the only noise came from the open beaks of seagulls as they circled Revanloch's crumbling towers. Flora peered down at her former brother-warden as he knelt before her, head bowed and the fish held up like an offering.

Carefully – with more finesse than Alistair had let loose the crown – she placed his gift on the ground; then reached out and took the fish from his trembling hands. This soon joined the socks and cheese in a strange little pile on the cobbles.

This being done, Flora reached out and touched the top of Alistair's head, feeling the outline of his skull through the rumpled golden hair. He looked up at her, face suffused with anxiety and hope. She smiled down at him, wondering why he appeared so nervous - for in what possible circumstances would she have said _no?_

_Our bond was forged in the breath of an Archdemon and hardened in the wake of Ostagar. We are bound brother- and sister-warden forever; tainted blood or no._

"Alistair," she replied kindly, speaking for the first time since she had stepped outside. "Of_ course_."

Before Flora had finished her sentence, Alistair was on his feet, lifting her up bodily. Flora put her arms around his neck, smiling at the sheer joy and relief in his grip. She was vaguely aware of cheering in the background, knew that her friends, brothers and companions were shouting and stamping their approval, could hear Leliana sniffing wetly from somewhere behind her; yet all she cared about at that moment was her best friend and his glowing, ecstatic face.

"That's a _yes?" _Alistair sought to confirm desperately. "It's a _yes, _Flora?"

She nodded, and a little choked sound of relief escaped his throat; letting her down gently onto the cobbles but keeping his arms clamped around her waist.

"You… you know it's a throne I'm offering, as well as a ring, " Alistair mumbled, eyes flickering sideways to the crown discarded on the cobbles. "I'm sorry that marrying me means becoming queen, Lo. I know you never wanted it."

Flora shrugged; the embodiment of Herring stoicism.

"A leader with a fancy hat. Lots of people looking at you. It's just like being Warden-Commander, really," she replied, with a northerner's practicality. "I did that well enough; I can do this too."

Alistair had not released Flora from the circle of his arms, but now he drew her closer still, letting his mouth collide with relief and desire against her own. She put her arms about his neck, parting her lips to accept the ardour of his untainted kiss; tasting the relief sharp on his tongue.

When they parted, Eamon was standing incongruously close; smiling and purposeful.

"Maker's Blessings on you both," he said, just about remembering to offer congratulations before getting down to business. "So, Florence, we want you married _ideally _as soon as possible."

Flora nodded, trying not to get distracted by Finian grinning and waving in the background.

"Alright," she replied, placidly. "When?"

Alistair swallowed, shooting his uncle a slightly anxious glance. Eamon pressed forwards, taking a deep breath.

"At the coronation in three days time," he proposed, determinedly. "Combine the ceremony with a wedding."

"But if that's too soon, Lo, it doesn't matter," the king added, hastily. "Whenever you feel ready."

"Three days is fine," she said, delighted at the prospect of becoming her brother-warden's wife so soon. "Just tell me where to stand and what to say."

Alistair embraced her once more, gripping Flora about the waist and pressing his face to the top of her head. She could feel dampness against her hair, and realised that tears of joy and relief were leaking from his eyes. Around them, there was excited chatter and relieved grins – nobody had expected Flora to turn Alistair down, but it was still reassuring to hear her enunciate her acceptance out loud.

"This is what I'd hoped for, since South Reach," the king whispered once again, the words emerging constricted. "And ever since the Blight ended, it's all I've thought of. I _need _you with me, Flo. As my wife, my _queen – _as my best friend in all Thedas."

Flora smiled against his leather tunic, her gaze falling on the socks and cheese lying abandoned on the cobblestones.

"Happy birthday," she said, squirming from Alistair's restraining arms to gaze up at him. "I've got a present for you."

"Oh!" Alistair said, remembering that the proposal was not yet complete. "I've got something for you, too."

"But it's not my birthday yet," protested Flora, watching Finian stride forward with something clenched in his palm.

Her brother passed the object to Alistair, who turned to Flora with a face now bright as sunrise.

"Give me your hand, Lo."

Flora held out her hand, palm upright; expecting to receive something to hold. Instead, Alistair reached out and turned her fingers so that her knuckles were facing upwards. With a thumb, he traced the slender line of her fourth finger; voice thickening with emotion.

"Do you remember what I told you about this finger in South Reach?"

"The Tevinter legend," she replied, dutifully. "About the vein going straight to the heart."

Alistair nodded, taking a deep and steadying breath. His own hand visibly trembled as he slid something cool and heavy onto her fourth finger. Flora looked down in surprise, her brow furrowing.

What once had been merely her own unprepossessing digit – short and bitten-nailed – now sported a slender band of gold beneath the lowest knuckle. Delicate filigree held a single ivory pearl in place; catching the torchlight like a small lantern.

"It's from the Royal treasury," Alistair explained throatily, not yet willing to release her hand. "It's got some fancy name- "

"_Mairyn's Star," _offered an eavesdropping Finian, desperate to worm his way into the proposal so that he could gleefully recant his involvement in the taverns later.

" – but it's from the ocean," the king continued, earnestly. "Some fisherman must have brought it up in his net. I thought it would remind you of Herring."

"I suggested the Kal-Ashok emerald at first," Eamon murmured to Leonas, who gave a small snort. "Or the diamond privateered from the Orlesians. The lad wouldn't have any of it. He knows his own mind."

Flora stood on her toes - feeling her bound knee give a twitch of effort – and pressed her lips to Alistair's own in gratitude.

"Thank you," she said, feeling her cheeks flush. "I got you a gift, too. It's not exactly _jewellery. _I'm… not very good at birthdays."

Bending down with a grunt, Flora scooped up the assorted items; presenting them to Alistair with her chin raised.

"Happy _twenty-one_ birthday."

Alistair's eyes gleamed with a sudden dampness as he looked down at the Fereldan cheddar and Mabari-patterned knitted socks. He took them as though in a dream, reaching out with his free hand to stroke Flora's cheek with his thumb.

"My beautiful betrothed," he said, thickly. "My queen."

Flora beamed up at him, the solemn Cousland mask dissolving as her lips curved upwards; eyes bright with equally matched ardour. Alistair wrapped his arm about her shoulders, keeping a tight grip on her as they turned to face their friends and companions.

"'Bout time you made an honest woman out of her!" Oghren guffawed through his ginger moustache, eyes sparkling merrily. "Congratulations."

Wynne was doing her best to wipe her damp eyes in her sleeve, swallowing briskly.

"I refuse to do what is expected of a sentimental old woman and bawl," she said sternly, though there was a distinct tremor in her voice. "I'm sure there'll be weeping enough at the wedding."

Flora smiled at the senior enchanter, pale gaze drifting towards where Zevran was standing a short distance to the side. He shot her a smile of genuine pleasure, only slightly tinged with wistfulness.

She smiled back; then Eamon was speaking to her, drawing her attention away.

"Do you want a carriage to return to Denerim? Or will you ride with Alistair?"

Flora blinked, turning back to where the Arl of Redcliffe was standing. The stars were emerging one at a time overhead, like small, glinting shells catching the sunlight from the bottom of some murky rock-pool. Night was drawing in without pause; the moon hung overhead, vast and impossibly low.

"Return to Denerim?" she asked, confused. "What do you mean?"

Fergus stepped forwards, smiling down at his younger sister with affection creasing his prematurely aged forehead.

"Floss, your month at Revanloch is over. We're taking you back to the palace."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alistair wasn't originally intending to blurt his proposal out in public, but he saw Flora and couldn't help himself, haha. He definitely rehearsed the bit about loving her like a fish loves the water, deep as the Amaranthine Ocean, though! He needn't have stressed out about the proposal – Flora just accepts it, lol – as she does becoming queen. This has been such a year of elevations for her - Warden, Cousland, Warden-Commander – that she takes the throne in her stride. The reason why Alistair didn't arrive until evening was because it took him literally six hours to catch a fish - in the end, Royal Guard had to scoop them up in massive nets and throw them at the king's fishing rod until one hooked on, hahaha.
> 
> Incidentally, Flora already sees them as good as married :P In Herring, people often just lived in common law relationships, so that's what she viewed herself and Alistair as being in! This is just making it official ;)


	41. Farewell to Revanloch Monastery

Flora's mouth fell open, and she turned first to Alistair, and then to her two Templar guards; a silent question in her eyes.

"Aye," Knight-Captain Gannorn confirmed, gruffly. "It's been thirty days. You're free to leave Revanloch."

Alistair beamed reflexively, utterly delighted that his soon-to-be wife could at last return to Denerim at his side.

Flora - who had never had a very solid grasp on the Theodesian calendar compared with the fishing seasons – blinked, her brow furrowing.

"I didn't realise," she breathed, astonished. "Oh, but my things are all over the place. I need some time to pack."

"I'll go and gather up your possessions ," Leliana interrupted, blowing her nose damply. "I know where everything is. But I'll need some help with the _duc's _giant golden _fish_. Hideous thing that it is!"

Finian gallantly volunteered to assist her, disappearing within the damp bowels of Revanloch in the bard's wake.

There followed a flurry of movement; shapes and silhouettes shifting in the torchlight as the gathered group prepared to depart. Stable boys came scampering excitedly forward, leading their equine charges across the cobbles; the Templar Knight-Commander conversed in low tones with Eamon about the Grand Cleric's presidence over the wedding. Flora's companions – save for one – conversed amongst themselves on the manner of Alistair's proposal. According to Wynne, it had taken the king six stressful hours to finally catch a fish at the end of his rod – in the end, Royal Guard had to hurl baskets of live, pre-caught fish into the water around Alistair's bobbing line.

An evening breeze had sprung up, whistling through the gaps in Revanloch's tiled roof and tugging at the faded Chantry banners hanging from the ramparts. Alistair – who had been tacking up his own horse – immediately went in search of a blanket for his new betrothed; aware that even the slightest breath of air was amplified on the cliff-top path.

Flora, meanwhile, had been surrounded by a crowd talking excitedly about the upcoming coronation and wedding – but to _each other, _rather than to her. She did not mind this in the slightest, standing at her silent Herring-father's elbow as he shifted on the cobbles. True to form, Pel had said little more than three words to Flora since passing beneath Revanloch's crumbling archway. She could tell that he was deeply uncomfortable in the company of the nobles; lined brow furrowed and mouth drawn taut behind the tangled grey beard.

For a moment, Flora wondered if there was anything she could do to ease his discomfort. She was skilled at persuasion, if the occasion demanded it – but even she could not see a way to reconcile her Herring father with her Highever status. Instead of speaking, she reached out – still getting used to the new weight of her be-ringed hand – and squeezed his elbow, tight and wordless.

Pel let out a grunt of disapproval at such tacit emotion, yet his eyes flickered over his adopted daughter with a fleeting glint of affection. Flora smiled up at him, and then her attention was caught once more by the Antivan elf; standing just beyond the reach of the torchlight.

Taking advantage of everyone's distraction, she sidled barefoot across the cobblestones and came to a halt besides Zevran. He was gazing through an iron grill set into the wall, which framed a view of the still, deep green Amaranthine Ocean. The wave-less surface reflected the effervescent miasma of the heavens as well as any mirror; the stars swathed in gaseous cloud and the moon a swollen counterpart of the pearl resting on Flora's finger.

With the extraordinary perception of one trained in subterfuge; Zevran had identified Flora by the sound of her approach alone, able to pick out the subtle differences in timbre between her strong and weak footfalls. He angled himself to face her, grinning as he drew his fingers together above her head in an emulation of a crown.

"You know, _carina," _he said, slyly. "That _circle _of gold will trap you just as effectively as any mage tower."

"Yes," she replied, with a shrug. "I know."

His dark eyes flared, fixing themselves onto hers like limpets.

"Is that really what you want, my Rialto lily? To be a… _prisoner_ of the throne? You have never desired status, _amor. _And this will be the end of freedom for you. The end of _choice._"

"Arl Eamon is right," Flora replied, quietly. "For some reason – I don't understand why – the people look at me and see…. _hope. _And since I'm not a Warden anymore, and my spirits are… are _gone, _it's the only way I can serve Ferelden."

Zevran fell quiet and pensive, his eyes moving from the pearl of betrothal on her finger to its lunar counterpart overhead. The breeze ruffled his hair, catching the fine platinum strands and tugging them upwards.

"_I_ made Alistair king at the Landsmeet," she continued, in little more than a whisper. "When I showed them my army – giving them no choice but to support me - I as good as put the crown on his head myself. It's only right I should serve this sentence at his side."

The elf took a deep inhalation of cool Fereldan air, forcing a strand of lightness back into his response.

"_Ah, _but you'll be breaking your promise to me then, _carina! _You won't be able to visit Antiva now. Or, if you _do, _you'll be visiting merchant princes and aristocrats; sipping _anís _on the loftiest of sea-view terraces. Not visiting an elf who dwells in the back-alleys behind the leatherworkers. You will only see the sunny side of the city."

Flora snorted, shooting him a little pointed glance.

"I'll go where I want," she retorted, with a flash of northern defiance. "I'll go to the… shadows and the back alleys."

"_Sí, _as long as it is with a troop of Royal Guard, _eh, mi florita? _The most _interesting_ denizens of Antiva will scatter like autumn leaves when they hear the sound of plated boots."

"Then I'll disguise myself as _Federico _to visit you! Or," she said, recalling their subterfuge to allow her undetected access to Denerim. "I'll become a whore again. A worker of the Pearl."

The elf smiled at Flora, appreciating her efforts to cheer him up.

"You're too sweet to pass yourself off as an Antivan whore,_ carina."_

"Well, I don't know," she replied, dropping her voice solemnly and putting a finger to her once-curative lips. "I've put my mouth on a _lot _of men over the years."

Zevran let out a sudden, genuine chortle at Flora's very mild bawdiness. He was proud of her attempt to make a joke about her own peculiar manner of healing; the absence of which was still a raw wound. He put his arm about her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek, affectionate and _mostly_ familial.

* * *

When it came time for Flora to officially leave Revanloch's custody, she found herself oddly emotional. The cloisters, although claustrophobic, had also shielded her from the initial post-Blight chaos; from the trauma of seeing injured and dying that she could no longer heal and from the smoke of the pyres that had burned for a week. She had left the monastery on only two occasions – for her feast, and to purchase Alistair's present – and had found herself content to dwell within its walls for the remainder of the time. Beneath Revanloch's leaking rooftiles, she had also found time to become more attuned to the _little creature _whose existence she had mostly ignored during the latter days of the Blight; and she had also been granted space, silence and privacy to grieve for her departed spirits.

Now Flora was aware that she was leaving privacy behind and immersing herself in Fereldan politics - a tangled web that she would most likely only be free of at her own death. It was an intimidating prospect, but Flora had faced intimidating prospects before; and she was a _northerner, _who knew that hard grit lay at the centre of every pearl.

With the others all mounted and ready to depart – save for Alistair, who waited patiently on the cobbles with the horse's reins in his hand – Flora went to thank her two Templar guardians in turn.

Knight-Captain Gannorn had grunted in response to her gratitude, the faintest flush appearing behind the neatly cropped silver hair on his cheeks.

"It was no chore, my lady," he muttered, eyes firmly fixed on the crumbling brickwork of the archway. "More interesting than escorting pilgrims across the Rivaini deserts."

Flora smiled at him, then turned to Chanter Devotia, summoning the words that Leliana had taught her earlier in the day. They emerged in an untrained rush, without proper elocution and eloquence; but with a genuine sincerity.

"'_The host of Shartan, the clans of Alamarri, a thousand freemen. Held aloft blade and spear and to the Maker gave thanks.' _THANKS," she repeated, with especial emphasis on the final word in the hope that her meaning was conveyed clearly.

For the first time in a month, the corner of the Chanter's mouth turned upwards; the steely violet stare flickering as she gazed down at the earnest young Cousland; who herself was a descendent of Ferelden's ancient Alamarri.

"'_As I stumble forth in shadow, I am not alone. And nothing that He has wrought shall be truly lost. _Nothing."

Just as Flora had done, Chanter Devotia hardened her voice meaningfully on the last word; catching Flora's eye and nodding slightly.

_Nothing shall be truly lost. Not even spirits blasted apart by a demon's soul._

Flora felt the all too familiar sensation of dampness prickling on her lashes, and took a quick inhalation of cold night air to suppress the surge of emotion. Turning to the Knight-Commander of the Fereldan Order, she bowed her head in gratitude; shivering slightly as a chilly breeze cut through the thin linen dress.

"Thank you for allowing me to stay here," she said, politely. "It wasn't half as horrible as I thought it was going to be."

Atop his horse, Finian snorted quietly; while Fergus let out a grunt of despair.

"The Maker's House is always open to those seeking solitude and sanctuary," replied the Knight-Commander, coughing slightly. "Although with you gone, our recruits might finally be able to concentrate on their lessons again."

Flora, not sure how to respond to this, smiled vaguely. Far above their heads, a bat swooped out of Revanloch's bell tower, making a leisurely circuit about the courtyard before dropping out of sight. The stiff breeze was soon accompanied by a fine, misting drizzle; the salt-tang of the sea strong in the air.

This was the final straw for Alistair, who decided that the goodbyes and gratitude had gone on long enough. With the blanket slung over his shoulder like a Tevinter-style cape, he strode across the cobbles and draped an arm protectively across Flora's bare shoulders.

"Darling, it's _freezing_ and you're practically naked. Come on, let's go home. Where in the Fade are your _boots?!"_

Footwear was retrieved, the king's horse led over, and Alistair lifted his mistress onto the saddle as though she was made of Orlesian glass. Moments later, he had clambered up to sit behind Flora; clamping one arm protectively around her waist while calling impatiently for the blanket. She clutched the rough woollen fabric to her chin; leaning back against Alistair's chest as he gripped the reins in a single, experienced hand.

The procession began with the retainers and Royal Guard on foot, their torches cutting a brilliant swathe through the darkness. They were followed by the nobles and Flora's companions, conversation dwindling as the tenth-hour bell rung faint in Revanloch's dwindling tower.

Flora twisted her head to catch one final glimpse of the monastery as the horses made their way along the clifftop path; plodding stoically through the drizzle. Despite the coolness of the night, a combination of the blanket and Alistair's proximity kept out the chill.

"Alistair," she whispered, hoping that her words weren't being immediately snatched away by the wind.

"Yes, my love?" he replied, through a mouthful of birthday-gift cheese.

"You said: 'let's go home'. Do you think of the palace as _home,_ then?"

Alistair was quiet a moment, his eyes drawn to the city of Denerim sprawled across the mouth of the estuary. It blazed away in defiance of the shadows; lit by a thousand braziers smouldering away on ramparts and bridges. The castle was perched on the highest point of the city, rising above the other districts like a watchful captain of the guard.

"I'm… starting to," he replied, eventually. "I know it sounds odd. But it already feels more familiar than the Templar monastery I was raised in, and I spent a decade there."

Flora twisted around in the saddle, and Alistair reflexively tightened his grip as he felt her shift against him. The purpose of such movement was revealed soon after; her lips landed slightly off-centre of his mouth. He pressed a returning kiss to the back of Flora's head as she settled back into her normal position.

"My queen," he said quietly and this time Flora did not chide or correct him, but laid her palm gently across his riding glove. The pearl on her fourth finger glinted in the moonlight, undulled by rain or veneer of night.

"I used to think that I could never feel at home anywhere other than Herring," she replied after a moment, tucking several loose strands of hair back into the silken bow. "I thought of nothing else when I was in the Circle. I was _so _homesick, I felt sometimes I would go mad if I didn't see the sea. That's why I climbed up on the tower roof so often."

Alistair waited with baited breath, keeping a firm hand on the reins as they began the gradual slope down into the city. Several scouts had ridden ahead to alert the guards; the portcullis was being slowly winched upwards over the western gate. It had been Eamon's idea to bring Flora back to Denerim under cover of night, when they could be guaranteed some measure of privacy.

"But recently I've been so confused, because I've stopped missing Herring _quite _so much," Flora continued thoughtfully, grateful for the reassuring firmness of Alistair's chest against her head. "I didn't understand why for a long time, and then… I did."

She fell quiet for several minutes, letting Alistair steer the horse down the sloping gravelled path towards the gate. To her relief, the Alamarri plains were lost in a mass of shadow to one side; looking upon them brought back too many raw memories for Flora's liking. Alistair did not press her to continue, exchanging a few murmured comments with Eamon as he drew up alongside them.

Once the arl had spurred his horse forward, Flora resumed her chain of thought; voice soft and contemplative. The drizzle had plastered her hair to her cheeks, an oddly comforting sensation for the native northerner.

"It's because I'm happiest and safest when I'm with _you,"_ she said at last, abandoning any attempt at effusive explanation. "So my home is wherever you are."

Alistair gripped her even more tightly on the saddle, inhaling unsteadily against her hair in place of a coherent response. Lost for words, he pressed his lips fiercely to the back of her head.

"I'll never be parted from you again," he said at last, voice emerging thickly from his throat. "The only good thing about the Blight was that, during it, I could always stretch out my hand and touch you. Now I'm going to keep you within arms' reach, _forever_."

Flora smiled to herself and then yawned, deeply. She let her head loll back against her soon-to-be husband's shoulder, trusting in the anchor of his arm to keep her astride the saddle. Within minutes, she had fallen asleep; lulled by the horse's gentle gait and the rhythm of Alistair's breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Of course Flora has no desire to be queen for the sake of a crown and a title! She did her duty as Warden-Commander during the Blight, but now that she can't do that – or heal – she views being queen as a way she can continue to serve the people of Ferelden. She's vaguely aware (mostly through Eamon's hints) that the people see her and her swollen belly as a figure of hope; and although she's not quite sure what that means, she's willing to try her best at it – just like Alistair is already doing.
> 
> Poor Zevran, though! I liked his comment about the circle of gold on her head trapping her just like a mage circle, lol.
> 
> I trawled through so many pages of the Chant on the DA wikia to find those quotes for Chanter Devotia ... seriously, I'd rather go through entries of the Domesday Book lol
> 
> In the last chapter, Alistair was effusive about how much he loved Flora – in his typical open, raw and impassioned way. As a northerner, Flora doesn't tend to spill over with verbal affection – especially not in public! (no true Herring-ite would) – so I wanted to show in this chapter how much Alistair means to her. Throughout the story, it's been emphasised how much Flora adores, values and misses Herring – so the fact that she now sees Alistair as her new home (even if that means the Royal palace) is a huge deal!
> 
> Wow I sound so uneloquent in these OOC author notes, lol. I actually sound like a proper moron – interspersing every sentence with lol and haha… I think my brain just switches off whenever I get to the end of editing a chapter (lol).


	42. Alistair's Second Gift

It felt as though Flora had only let her eyes close for a moment; yet when she blinked and roused herself, they were on the final approach up to the Royal Palace. The night-time drizzle had finally abated, the veil of cloud drawing back to create a star-studded backdrop for the sprawling, fortress-like Theirin seat. The castle ramparts and towers sat squatly silhouetted against the heavens, no less intimidating for being half-cloaked in shadow. Many of the trees from the Royal hunting grounds had been unceremoniously chopped down to fortify the camp on the Alamarri plains; great swathes of woodland lay studded with forlorn tree-stumps.

The hooves of the horses crunched softly against the gravel as they came to a halt on the palace forecourt. Flora yawned, peering around at their diminished company. Several of her companions had clearly gone their separate ways in the city below – Leonas too must have retired to the Bryland manor in the noble district. She noticed with a twinge of sadness that her Herring-father had also taken himself off, without word or ceremony.

_I'm surprised he's even stayed in the city this long. He must be returning to Herring soon, it's almost bream season._

Flora found herself irrationally terrified by the idea of her adoptive father leaving for the northern coast. Her heartbeat surged like a startled horse, and she found herself instinctively shifting closer to Alistair on the saddle, her fingers anchoring themselves to his sleeve.

"Darling," he said quietly, realising that she had woken. "We're here."

Swallowing the bitter taste of anxiety, Flora peered up at the imposing eastern face of the palace. The basalt rock was bathed in firelight from a dozen standing braziers, and she could see the silhouettes of guards posted at intervals along the ramparts overhead. Stable boys and the Royal Steward were already there to meet them, standing in formal array outside the main doors.

Those still remaining in the party dismounted onto the gravel, their horses swiftly led away by dutiful retainers. Alistair reached up for a yawning Flora, reluctant to release her even when she was safely on the ground.

"Your Majesty, Lady Cousland," Guillaume murmured, stepping forward and sweeping into a smooth, practised bow. "Congratulations on your betrothal. And welcome back to the palace, my lady; on behalf of the household. We are glad to have you here with us."

Flora gave a sleepy smile in response as Alistair beamed from beside her.

"Is the fire lit in our chamber?" the king asked as they made their way into the entrance hall. "And extra furs on the bed? It's a cold night, I won't have my wife - my _almost-wife _catching a chill."

"Aye, your majesty. It is all as you requested."

Flora roused herself, gazing at the hall that she had not seen for a month even as one hand extended reflexively to touch the stone Mabari's paw. The fireplaces that lined each wall were lit; smouldering softly into the shadow and emitting scented cedar-smoke. The thick teal velvet carpeting – designed to impress those first making entrance into the palace – had been freshly cleaned, dust and dog-hair swept away, worn patches re-threaded.

Yet her eye was drawn to the long banners overhead, hanging from each rafter in an endless parade of brightly embroidered silk. Interspersed with the usual Theirin and Ferelden pennants hung several new designs – the olive Highever wreath stood stark and proud against its navy backdrop. At the forefront hung the pattern that Flora had noticed when venturing to the Denerim markets – the Theirin lion, with the Cousland laurel wrapped intimately around its paw and flank.

"Oh!" she breathed, in sudden realisation. "Alistair, are they for _us? _For the wedding?"

Alistair, who had paused to exchange a few words with Eamon, gave a little – slightly self-conscious – nod. More than one pair of eyes swung towards Flora to see how she would react to this blatant sign that preparations for her marriage had been going on for some time – long before Alistair's actual proposal.

As it transpired, Flora was entirely unbothered by this revelation – becoming Alistair's wife was just a Chantry-acknowledged formalisation of their existing bond; and she was used to pomp and ceremony from her brief tenure as Warden-Commander.

"Well, I like it," she said amiably, stifling another yawn. "It's a clever design."

_Though better with a fish incorporated in it somewhere, _she thought privately to herself. _Or some seaweed._

Alistair, vastly relieved, strode back to Flora's side; noticing that his lover was unsteady on her feet with tiredness.

"Come on, sweetheart. I know we aren't _officially_ married yet, but I'm going to carry you over the threshold regardless."

Flora allowed herself to be hoisted up into the familiar berth of the king's arms, anchoring herself around his neck and yawning once again.

"Not officially," she murmured, sliding her finger along the fur collar of his tunic. "But it feels like we've been married forever."

_I slept in your arms for months before we ever did anything more explicit. We lay tangled together on the bedroll like a decades-wed couple before we'd even shared a kiss. It was a defiance of sorts, against both our grief over Ostagar and the terrible knowledge that we were fighting the Fifth Blight alone._

Alistair pressed affectionate lips to the top of Flora's head, tasting the salty residue from the sea-mist on her hair.

"My _wife," _he repeated, and it was clear that he placed far greater significance on the Chantry's blessing of their relationship. "Maker, I wasn't particularly looking forward to the coronation, but now I wish it were _tomorrow."_

Flora yawned once more in response, letting her head droop against his shoulder.

The journey up to the Royal passageway – which housed the king's quarters, as well as those of the Couslands – passed in a series of intermittent images as Flora dozed on and off in Alistair's arms. From half-closed eyes, she caught a glimpse of certain familiar features; the distinct landmarks she had once used to navigate her way about the palace.

The first was the stained glass depiction of the great king Calenhad, progenitor of the Theirin line. Alistair's oldest ancestor had united the diverse tribes of the Alamarri and thus won himself a place in Fereldan legend. In the past Flora had spent countless minutes standing open-mouthed before the cunningly designed window, wondering how they made glass gleam in such a vivid spectrum of shades.

Then it was along a wide corridor lined with suits of armour, up a curling stone staircase; then across a minstrel's gallery that ran above a great hall. It was crammed full of extra tables and chairs, in readiness to house three hundred additional mouths in two days' time.

At the top of another wide, shallow flight of steps, a vast and moth-eaten tapestry showed an unfortunate _halla _being set upon by a pack of delighted, bloody-jawed Mabari. This marked the beginning of the Royal corridor, a wide passage lined with busts of previous kings and queens. Guardsmen were placed at intervals between these carved visages; stiff as suits of armour and clutching pikes in their hands.

Flora awoke just as Alistair came to a halt outside the vast, ornately carved wooden doors that led into the Royal bedchamber. Alistair had stopped to receive a wry reminder from Eamon; one of the few who had accompanied them up from the entrance hall.

"Now, son," the arl said quietly, keeping his voice lowered out of courtesy for the Cousland brothers. "The lady Florence is not _going_ anywhere. Do try and be on time for the council tomorrow morning."

"In other words, there'll be all the nights in the world to spend together," murmured Zevran under his breath; the elf loitering in the shadows near Finian.

Alistair gave a vague and oblivious nod, only half-listening. His fingers were working through the rope-like, dark red strands of Flora's hair; exploring its rain-dampened texture.

"What time does it start?" mumbled Flora, who had punctuality drilled into her during her tenure at the Circle.

"Nine bells," replied Eamon, pale green Guerrin eyes fixing themselves on her. "Will you do your utmost to see that he's there, child?"

Flora nodded, stifling another yawn against Alistair's tunic.

"Mm."

Fergus stepped forward to say goodnight; sporting a face vividly stricken with conflict. On the one hand, his little sister was soon going to become _Queen of Ferelden. _Never before had Ferelden's two most prominent families been so closely allied – it was a great political coup. In some tangential way, it also fulfilled Bryce Cousland's desire to betroth his pretty daughter to a son of Maric – albeit not the one the old teyrn had intended.

However, a more immediate and pressing concern for the new teyrn was Flora's resumed residency in the adjacent bedchamber. His younger sister tended to be somewhat _vocal _– to put it mildly – during her nightly exertions with Alistair, and Fergus had no intention of being traumatised. Stonemasons had already started the process of reinforcing the party wall between the Theirin and Cousland quarters; until then, the teyrn of Highever was well-stocked with earplugs.

Both Cousland brothers bid their sister goodnight, Zevran blowing a subtle kiss in the background. To Fergus' relief, Flora appeared far too tired for any nocturnal activities; arms wound around Alistair's neck and her eyes half closing.

The Royal Guard dutifully opened the double doors for their king, stepping back with a smart _left-right_ shift of their pikes as he carried his yawning mistress into the bedchamber.

As the sounds from the corridor were muted by the closure of the doors, Alistair pressed a kiss to Flora's ear; the words emerging soft and shyly hopeful.

"This is my birthday gift to you, sweet girl," he murmured, unable to stop a proud beam from spreading across his face.

Flora opened her eyes, perplexed.

"I thought _this _was your birthday gift to me," she mumbled, letting her sleepy fingers droop back to reveal the filigree-clad pearl known as _Mairyn's Star._

"Well, then. This is my_ second_ gift," Alistair replied, lowering Flora gently to the ground so that she could take in the surroundings. "Look about you."

The king's bedchamber was lit by the great hearth on the far wall; wider than most fireplaces and thus able to bathe the majority of the room in soft, ochre light. It had always been surprisingly austere for a royal bedchamber – no Theirin had particularly valued fussy ornamentation, and Alistair was no exception. Instead of gilt or lavish embellishment, the walls were clad in thick plaster and coated in murals of native beasts; dark exposed beams running the length of the ceiling. Skilfully-hewn statues of Fereldan heroes stood instead of paintings; and a large, somewhat faded tapestry depicting Calenhad's loyal pack of Mabari hung on the south wall. Animal furs were strewn both over the flagstones and atop the master bed, tangled amidst blankets embroidered in Alamarri clan patterns.

All this was familiar to Flora, who had resided with Alistair in the Royal bedchamber for nearly two months prior to the final battle. Yet the more she gazed around, the more she noticed the subtle differences in décor that Alistair had made.

Murals of loll-tongued Mabari and proud Ferelden Forder horses already decorated various walls, but Flora noticed a new design daubed above the great hearth. A line of dancing fish, their bodies curled in artistically pleasing symmetry, had been picked out in fresh paint on the plaster. Several blankets strewn across the over-large bed had been embroidered with patterns native to the northern coast – some from Highever and others from the rural localities – but each one known to her. Scattered across the dark oak top of the dresser were a number of sea-shells, washed and varnished to a sheen.

Flora's attention was drawn finally to the window, besides which she had spent many hours sitting and gazing at the city spread over the estuary below. The stonemasons reinforcing the joining wall between Cousland and Theirin quarters had also paid a visit here. The window had been widened and deepened, so that it was possible to lie in the great fur-strewn bed and gaze directly out at a swathe of the pea-green Amaranthine Ocean.

"You told me once that you liked to watch the storms over the sea at night," Alistair murmured softly in Flora's ear. "Now we can do that together."

Flora stared wordlessly at him, for she had mentioned that only fleetingly, _wistfully,_ over six months prior. Alistair flashed her a little grin, trying to disguise how proud he was of this second gift.

"See, you're not the only one with a good memory! I remember things too. Well, sometimes."

Flora gazed once more around the bedchamber, her wide and astonished eyes taking in the painted fish murals, the familiar stitching on the blankets, the shells and the sea-view window.

"I – I know this life isn't what you ever wanted," Alistair murmured, soft and rueful. "Maker's Breath, I wish I were a man who could take you back to Herring and live a simple life in a two-room cottage. But… but I hope this at least will help a little. Make you feel more comfortable, at least."

Unable to retrieve any coherent words, Flora reached up her arms towards her former brother-warden. He went to embrace her; drawing her against his chest with mingled protectiveness and affection. With Flora's face buried in the leather of his tunic, it wasn't until Alistair saw the shaking of her shoulders that he realised she was crying.

"My love," he said, leaning back just far enough to see her water-stained cheeks. _"_Those are _happy _tears, right?"

Flora nodded, staring up at him with eyes like winter skies over the Waking Sea; grey, damp and clouded. She reached up to touch the side of Alistair's face, tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the residue of the evening's rain in the short beard covering his chin. Alistair said nothing more, his face bright with affection but his eyes trained on her with the still, unblinking focus of a Mabari spotting a lone _halla._

Anchoring his fingers wordlessly in her own, Flora shuffled backwards across the flagstones, leading her best friend to the fur-strewn royal bed. He followed her as though in a dream, docile as a child but with an intensity in his expression that belied the gentleness.

Loosing his hand, Flora lowered herself down amidst the blankets, letting her fingers curl into the familiar patterns of the fabric.

"Alistair."

Shaking her head back so that the thick, dark red ropes of hair fell away from her shoulders, she let him see how the white linen of the dress had become translucent in the rain; the pink of her nipple showing through the wet fabric as it clung to the curve of her breast.

"Make me your wife_,"_ Flora whispered, peering up at him through damp eyelashes as she gestured to the bed. _"_Now, _here._ Before the Chantry does."

"_Yes," _the king breathed, stepping forwards and reaching to unbutton his breeches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I think that Alistair – with his Templar/monastery background – is a lot more concerned with the Chantry formalising their union. Whereas Flora, from a small-village, is less concerned with the official side of it. Which is actually pretty accurate – in Medieval times, a canon law marriage was just where a couple stated that they were man and wife (i.e. with no witness but God) – there was no need for a priest to confirm it! Obviously, in the cases of nobility (with property and money) they would have a proper formal ceremony; but peasants didn't tend to be fussed about weddings, lol.
> 
> I thought that Alistair adding some Herring-themed décor to the royal bedchamber would be a cute idea! As well as widening the window so she can see the sea from in bed.


	43. Meetings and Marriage Rituals

Flora awoke on the morning of her twentieth birthday with heated breath against her skin and a dozen kisses being plastered across her cheeks, nose, forehead and mouth. She opened her eyes in slight alarm, only to see Alistair's face hovering inches above her own. His hair was transformed to spun gold by the morning sunlight streaming through the parted curtains; coppery stubble emphasising the hard angle of his jaw.

"Happy birthday," he breathed, beaming down at her with naked adoration. "My beautiful girl."

"Twenty-birthday," mumbled Flora blearily, wondering if they had overslept. _"Twenteenth? Twentorth?"_

Alistair did not correct her, but instead ducked his head down to kiss her mouth once more; lifting their fingers still entwined from sleep. Flora smiled up at him, stretching stiff limbs out as far as they would reach.

"What hour is it?" she asked, yawning.

"They rang the eighth bell some time ago," replied Alistair, then yelped as Flora disentangled herself from the blankets and launched herself to her feet with surprising agility considering her condition. "What? What? Is there a _spider _in the bed? _Maker's Breath!"_

The king began to root through the blankets and furs in consternation, looking for the cause of Flora's rapid exit from his arms.

"No," Flora replied, pulling the dressing robe tight across her chest and scuttling across to the door. "It's your council meeting soon, remember? _It begins at nine bells!"_

Four years spent within a Circle – where meal-times and classroom hours were strictly adhered to for fear of a Templar's discipline – had hardened Flora's natural desire to be in good time - if not _early!_\- for everything.

Alistair watched, half-amused and half-bemused, as she begged a steward for some bathwater to be brought up to their chamber.

"My love," he said, clambering naked from the bed at a far more leisurely pace. "I'm the _king. _I can't be _late, _because they can't start without me."

Flora shot him a stern look over her shoulder, trying - and failing - not to get distracted by his finely-hewn body.

"They asked me to make sure that you were there on time," she told him sternly; forcing her eyes to stay fixed above his neck.

Alistair grinned, advancing towards her with lusty purpose bright on his face.

"Well, I might relocate the meeting," he murmured, knowing full-well that she was trying not to look at him. "To the _bed_. And restrict it to only myself and my… closest adviser."

"Arl Eamon?"

Alistair's eyes bulged at Flora's innocent query, and an incredulous bark of laughter escaped his throat.

"_No, _darling. _You! _Obviously."

* * *

Despite all of Alistair's protestations; the king and his betrothed were washed, dressed and waiting outside the council chamber doorway before the bell had even struck the ninth hour. The two Royal Guardsmen at the door were frozen in perpetual salute as the couple hovered indecisively at the entrance.

"We're _early," _Alistair said, suppressing a wry snort. "Everybody else is probably still breaking their fast."

Flora shifted from foot to foot, opening her mouth to explain how _important _it was to be punctual, and then she heard the sound of footsteps and muted conversation; the tangling together of high-born accents from north, east and south-west Ferelden.

"Floss!" exclaimed a familiar voice, excited and aristocratic. "Come here, you little old lady."

Flora turned to receive Finian's enthusiastic embrace, smiling up at him as he reached down to ruffle her hair.

"Though still not yet quite old enough to vote in the Landsmeet," her oldest brother added wryly as he came to join them, a proud beam writ across his face.

The other members of Alistair's council gathered about them, each one offering their congratulations. Eamon, resplendent in a Redcliffe-scarlet tunic that looked new, smiled down at Flora with quiet relief that she had not kept Alistair preoccupied for all hours in the bedchamber. Leonas grunted gruffly in place of a greeting, pressing an object wrapped in brown paper into Flora's palm. Teagan leaned forward and kissed her rather abruptly on the cheek

"Happy birthday, petal."

Flora received their congratulations with mild disbelief. She was used to receiving attention, but not for something as unremarkable as _ageing – _which she had played no part in accomplishing, and thus deserved no congratulations _for_. Still, she smiled at each one in turn, bowing her head gratefully as her fingers clamped themselves around the hard object that Leonas had given her.

"Let's get this underway," Eamon said at last, canting his head towards the council chamber. "Florence doesn't want to spend her whole birthday trapped in meetings, I imagine."

Flora blinked, her pale grey gaze moving from Alistair to Eamon, and then to the room beyond the open doors.

Sunlight streamed down from several high windows, illuminating the polished surface of a vast wooden table, two dozen chairs placed around its perimeter. Statues of great Fereldan legends were stationed like sentries at the boundaries of the room. A lofty Calenhad sporting a kilt and broadsword stood watch over the southern face of the room. An armoured woman - Alistair's grandmother, Moira – had a Mabari asleep at her feet as she glowered unseeingly forward.

Yet the statue which drew Flora's eye was the tall figure guarding the elevated pair of seats at the head of the table. The stone was brighter and less weathered by age; looking at the man's handsome, bearded features, Flora felt a spark of recollection ignite in the deepest depths of her recently-uncovered memory.

_A man's voice, deep and amused, rang in the small girl's ear as he sat her on his knee, one hand smoothing down her childish curls._

_She'll be a rare beauty when she's older, Bryce._

_So you think she'll do for Cailan, in a few years' time?_

_Aye, she'll do very well. Comely little creature._

In addition to her memories of Maric from his visit to Highever, Flora could see the startling similarities in feature between the old king and his younger son. Alistair had the classic Theirin build – tall and broad, more at ease in armour than finery – and the strong Marician jawline, obvious even beneath the close-cropped beard.

"You'll sit with me, Lo," Alistair murmured in her ear as they entered, his palm spread over the small of her back. "I'll do my best to make it brief. Sorry, love."

There were twin notes of anxiety and apology in his tone, and Flora darted a quick look at him. She realised that Alistair was _nervous _– that this was her first proper foray into the life that he had grudgingly accepted. _I'm sorry, Flo, _he had said last night in the Royal bedchamber, an involuntary grimace distorting his handsome features. _I know this isn't what you'd have chosen for yourself._

It was _not_ what Flora would have chosen for herself; but she had as good as placed the crown on Alistair's head by bringing her army to the Landsmeet vote and forcing their hand.

_It's only sitting on a chair and listening, _she thought, determinedly. _I can sit on a chair all day if needs be; I learnt patience at the Circle._

Flora lifted her chin, letting Alistair guide her to the slightly raised step at the far end of the table, where a pair of ornately carved chairs stood side by side. The elevation was less than a foot in height, yet he still gripped Flora's elbow as a precaution as she stepped up.

The rest of the council took their places at the various seats, waiting to sit until their king had taken the initiative. Alistair glanced sideways at Flora, standing patiently at his side. Despite the fact that this was her first official appearance at the king's council; a formal introduction into what would become a recurring feature of her life as queen; she did not appear apprehensive in the slightest.

Instead, she bore the usual solemn expression, her pale eyes thoughtful as they meandered across the faces of those assembled at the table. There was a natural imperiousness to her features – the full, curving mouth and high-angled cheekbones were reminiscent of her Alamarri heritage; and this proved immeasurably useful in the circumstances. The king felt a sudden surge of pride in his former sister-warden, who – like himself – had been raised in such humility, and had now been elevated to such prominence.

"I convene this meeting of the King's Council on the prime day of Solace, 9:31 Dragon," began Eamon, for the benefit of the scribes. "First item of business – we have an addition to our number. Florence – daughter of the late Teyrn Bryce Cousland, Hero of Ferelden, Ender of the Fifth Blight, betrothed of the king…"

Flora barely paid heed to the string of titles ascribed to her, noticing how Alistair had taken out notepad and ink-pen in order to make his own record of proceedings.

"Welcome, Florence."

The other members of the council gave a hail of greeting, Fergus' face suffused with gratification as he gazed up at his sister. Alistair reached for Flora's hand beneath the table, giving it a surreptitious squeeze.

The next item on the agenda was the conversion of pasture land to tillage, in preparation for a winter that would surely tax the long-suffering people of Ferelden. With such large swathes of land destroyed by the Blight, much arable soil was now unsuitable for growing crops. The harvest was sure to be poor, and unless precautionary measures were taken, there would be a severe subsistence crisis in the autumn.

For the following few hours, various problems and solutions were offered and discussed extensively. Fergus raised the issue that some land was not suitable for the plough. Leonas added that the cloth trade was a vital source of income between Ferelden and the Marches; and that the sabotage of their own animal stock would do irreparable damage to the economy.

Alistair paused in his scribbling to glance sideways at his betrothed. Flora was listening avidly to the discussion, her brow furrowed slightly and her mouth part-open. He had been apprehensive that she would find the proceedings tedious; clearly, he needn't have worried.

Although Flora was not able to contribute to the discussion, she understood well enough what they were about. There had been winters in Herring when there been nothing to eat for weeks but a thin broth made from seaweed; when the loose skin hung from her dad's cheeks with nothing to fill it, and her own childish ribs protruded against the flesh. The thought of the people of Ferelden starving in their thousands – when they had suffered so horrifically over the past year – was such an appalling notion that she leaned forward to listen, ignoring the growling of her stomach.

Alistair, however, had heard the rumbling from his lover's belly and narrowed his eyes. All at once, he realised that Flora was sitting on a deeply uncomfortable wooden seat, and that she had had nothing to eat or drink since awakening. Despite the opened windows, the room was rapidly beginning to overheat, beams of sunlight glancing off the gleaming wooden surface of the table.

"Let's take a recess," the king said abruptly, cutting across the Bann of Calon. "We'll resume the meeting at the change of watch."

There came a general murmur of relief; members of the council rapidly dispersing to refresh themselves or meet with their retainers. Alistair rose to his feet, bending down to press a kiss to Flora's cheek.

"Darling, I'm going to sort out some food for you," he murmured, affectionate fingers cupping the back of her head. "I could hear your stomach grumbling louder than a Mabari."

Flora nodded, leaning back against the wooden chair in an effort to find a position that relieved her aching back. There came a soft rustle of paper from her lap and she looked down, seeing the small, wrapped item that Leonas had handed her earlier. Shooting the Arl of South Reach a curious glance – he was still seated, ignoring a hovering steward while busily scribing a letter – Flora unfolded the parchment, feeling something hard and metallic underneath.

The paper fell away to reveal a small silver token, shaped like a wolf's head. The features were worn away in places, but the snarl of the beast's jaw was still clearly visible in the worked metal. Flora ran her finger over the etched row of teeth, brow furrowing. For the second time that morning, a faint flicker of memory resonated at the back of her mind – unlike the first, she was unable to retrieve it.

"It's the emblem of the _Sea Wolf."_

Flora looked up at the general's familiar, gruff tones. Leonas had put the letter down and was gazing at her, dark eyes oddly reminiscent.

"Thirty five years ago, your mother – Eleanor Mac Eanraig – won this title after sinking her eighth Orlesian warship. Hundreds of these silver emblems were made and handed out as tokens of her victory."

Flora stared at him, fascination writ naked on her features. Leonas, who had known both Bryce and Eleanor for decades, let out a little cough, letting his gaze drop to the table.

"Anyway. I found this one in a desk; thought you might like it. You know, they used to call your mother, the_ Queen of the Waking Sea?"_

Flora had _not_ known this, and this thin skein connecting her to a mother whom she barely remembered was just as precious a gift as the silver emblem itself. Sliding the token into her tunic pocket, she clambered to her feet and stepped down from the elevated platform, following the border of the table to reach Leonas' seat.

Leonas half-rose from the chair, letting out a small grunt as she embraced him, curling her slender arms about his neck. Despite his abrasive exterior, the arl had raised single-handedly a daughter close to Flora's age, and was at ease with such a display of affection. He passed a quick, paternal hand over the top of her head; suddenly wishing very much that his old friend was alive to see how his youngest child had turned out.

Shortly afterwards, Alistair returned with two tray-bearing servants in tow, one bearing flagons and the other weighed down with buttered bread and hunks of salty cheese. King and mistress sat back down on their elevated seats, sharing the contents of the tray and whispering to each other.

"You're not bored, are you?" he asked her, anxiously. "I'm sorry that we're doing this on your _birthday_."

Flora swallowed an impressively girthy chunk of cheese, shooting him a look of affront in response.

"I'm not at all bored," she replied, sternly. "This is important. I don't want anyone to starve in the autumn!"

Alistair smiled at her, the weight of the golden band atop his head no longer quite so cumbersome.

Once the session had resumed, a general consensus was reached – additional grain needed to be imported from the Marches to form an emergency reserve.

"We can't afford to match the price paid by Orlais," Fergus pointed out, bluntly. "The Marcher merchants already overcharge our ships with this blasted Blight-tax."

"There's a trade guild meeting in several days' time," Teagan interjected, after a murmured whisper from a hovering Rainesfere secretary. "The Marcher merchants are sure to be there."

"Uncle, would you try and talk some sense into them?" Alistair asked, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his thumb into his temples. "At least, get them to abandon the quarantine of Fereldan ships in their ports. As if Darkspawn could smuggle themselves away in the hold – Maker's Breath, it's ridiculous."

Teagan nodded, making a brief note on the parchment.

"I'll do my best, Alistair. They'll be sick of seeing my face, though - I've been at three of their meetings already this month."

"Florence could accompany you," spoke up the elder Guerrin, suddenly. "Her word on the Darkspawn might prove to be more reassuring, considering her history as a Warden."

_And she's the Hero of Ferelden, _the arl's argument continued, unspoken. _Her presence alone will sway them._

"Plus, who could say _no_ to a face like that?" Finian added cheerfully; gesturing towards where Flora was sitting, solemn and listening closely.

"_Exactly,"_ murmured Eamon, and there was no jest in his own response. "I doubt they'll refuse her anything. Florence, would you be amenable to this?"

Flora nodded, grateful to be able to help even in a minor way.

Alistair had been listening to the exchange in silence; a crease of anxiety folding its way across his Marician brow.

"And she'll be with you the whole time, Teagan?" the king sought to clarify, painfully aware that his new commitments meant that he would not be able to accompany his new queen _every_ time that she left the safety of the palace.

"Aye, lad," the bann replied, quietly. "No harm will come to her when she's with me, you can be sure of it."

Flora frowned at the reminder that she was now reliant on others for protection; thinking wistfully back to a time when _she_ had been responsible for shielding everyone else.

The next hour was spent discussing various minor issues – the repair of the southern city wall, the Chantry's efforts to rehouse the refugees still remaining in Denerim's ports, recruitment into the Royal Army. Alistair's upcoming progress was mentioned briefly, but any further discussion would be postponed until after the coronation.

Alistair stayed alert throughout proceedings, alternating between scribbling his notes and asking questions. Flora said nothing during the wall and progress discussion, piping up only to ask if the refugees were being well-treated by the Chantry. Leonas replied that many of them were forming what they themselves dubbed as 'restoration committees'; their eventual purpose to return to their shattered communities and attempt to rebuild them. He, as Arl of South Reach, was participating in discussions for the revival of his own seat, as well as the rebuilding of Lothering. Each noble present would be responsible for ensuring that the townsfolk in their own_ demesne _would not starve through winter.

The bell had just rung for the mid-afternoon change in watch, when Eamon finally brought forward the final item on the agenda. Everybody in the council chamber was beginning to look distinctly overheated – tunic sleeves had been rolled up, copious amounts of watered-down ale drunk, and the great oak doors had been propped open to encourage the circulation of air.

Flora – who was used to sitting in stuffy Circle classrooms for hours on end – was coping reasonably well. Alistair had exchanged seats with his expectant mistress, so that the long shadow of Maric's statue shielded her from the sun's glare. In contrast to their velvet and leather tunics, Flora was clad in a short navy kirtle that ended at the knee; and had surreptitiously pulled off her woollen leggings during a discussion of stonemason fees.

"Finally," Eamon said, aware that most of those present were wilting. "The coronation will take place in two days' time. All arrangements are in place, and the remainder of guests are due to arrive tomorrow."

"Who's here already?" asked Alistair, tilting his face gratefully towards Flora as she fanned him with a sheet of parchment. "Thank you, sweetheart."

"_Grand-Duc_ Gaspard de Chalons, obviously," began Fergus, whose spies had kept a close eye on the movements of the Orlesian nobleman over the past week. "In addition, Celene has sent her Court Enchanter and adviser; she's staying at the Circle's Denerim quarters. The Viscount of Kirkwall and his son arrived yesterday. There's also a magister from Minrathous."

"Lot of mages," commented the Bann of Calon, with a little twitch of apprehension. "Lot of _foreigners,_ actually. I don't remember this many attending Cailan's coronation – most didn't even bother replying to their invitations."

Fergus paused, glancing down the table to his younger sister.

"They're under close watch. And – from what my sources are suggesting - it sounds as though many of them are curious about _you._ Prepare yourself for a lot of stares, pup."

Flora felt the gaze of the council settle on her, curious as to her reaction. She let her eyes roll in a single, languid motion, a dismissive Herring grunt escaping from her threat.

Teagan laughed, shooting her a quick glance of approval.

"Perfect response," Eamon murmured, shuffling through the sheaf of parchment on the desk before him. "Who else is still to come?"

"There's a Pentaghast general arriving tomorrow," Fergus finished, checking his notes. "The Vael's vessel from Starkhaven should be coming into dock soon."

A steward entered unobtrusively, moving around the table and topping up flagons of ale. The cawing of seagulls echoed down from the high windows; tinny and distant.

"Alistair, Florence," the Arl of Redcliffe continued, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. "The rehearsal will take place tomorrow in the Grand Chantry. The ceremony itself should last about two hours – I know you wanted to keep it brief, Alistair – and there'll follow a feast here, at the palace."

Alistair nodded, his fingers reaching out to grasp Flora's excitedly underneath the table. Despite the unwanted accompanying fuss and ritual, the king was still unable to hide his delight at finally being able to make his best friend his _wife._

Flora smiled back at him, but had detected a slightly odd prickling of the atmosphere in the council chamber. She looked up, only to see Finian darting his gaze away quick as a snake; Fergus equally uncomfortable. Leonas also avoided her questioning stare, lifting his dark Bryland eyes to the ceiling.

"What?" she asked, perplexed as to why an entire chamber of mostly middle-aged men had suddenly begun to squirm. _"What?"_

Nobody spoke for a moment, and now Alistair too detected the strange tension in the room. He narrowed his eyes, infusing a vein of Theirin authority into his own query.

"Uncle, answer her."

Eamon cleared his throat, tapping his ink-pen methodically against the surface of the table.

"I expect that neither you nor Florence will be aware of the wedding night proceedings for a royal marriage," he said, eyes fixed firmly on the stone Maric's face.

Alistair blinked, glancing sideways at an equally bemused Flora.

"What, like – wearing a special pair of pajamas?" he asked with forced humour, lifting his flagon to his lips. "Bringing out the fanciest bedsheets?"

"Not exactly," continued Eamon, measuredly. "Alistair, you know how important it is that the marriage between a king and queen is undisputed? If anybody did query the legitimacy of a royal union, it could affect the succession and future stability of the nation."

Alistair took several long gulps of lukewarm ale, nodding slowly.

"So – in order to absolutely _guarantee_ that a full and valid marriage has taken place – the consummation needs to be witnessed. By a high-ranking sister of the Chantry, and a peer of the realm."

The king nearly spat his drink across the table, eyes bulging.

"_Maker's Breath!"_

Fergus and Finian both looked as though they wanted to sink a mile underground into the Deep Roads; a fate preferable to remaining in the council chamber. Leonas grunted, a scowl deepening the careworn lines across his face.

Meanwhile Flora sat there, utterly confused. She had no idea what _consummation _meant; it was not a word found in the Herring lexicon. Alistair, his features contorted in sheer incredulity, leaned over and whispered in her ear. A moment later, her eyes widened and she beamed in delight. 

"A show? We're going to be in a _show? _I've never been in a show before."

"Not exactly a _show, _my darling- well, sort of a show," amended Alistair, a single bead of sweat trickling down the back of his neck.

"I never got picked to be in any of the Circle plays! And now I'm going to be the _star!"_

"Maric and my sister were witnessed – not by myself, obviously," Eamon added hastily, seeing the king's dubious expression. "As were Cailan and Anora. It's _important_, Alistair – it means that no one can doubt the legality of your marriage… and the status of your heirs."

Alistair glanced down at the swell of Flora's stomach, and thought of their child, which – until they were married – was currently a bastard. Having grown up with this stigma draped like a mantle of shame across his shoulders, Alistair knew full well the importance of legitimacy.

"They'll put a screen before the bed," Finian offered; the ritual being relatively common practice in Orlaisian marriages. "Though it's completely see-through."

"Maker's Breath," the king repeated sarcastically, taking another gulp of ale. "No pressure, then!"

Flora leaned across and whispered in his ear, with the ease of someone who had rarely experienced privacy.

"It'll be just like doing it in the tent," she breathed, patting his knee. "And we used to do that _all the time. _Don't worry about it."

Alistair swallowed, acquiescing with a grim nod.

"Fine," he said, shortly. "So, some old crone from the Chantry – who'll probably tut disapprovingly throughout – and, I'm assuming, one of you lot? Great."

"Not Ferg or I," Finian hastened to reply, as his elder brother grimaced. "Obviously."

"It'll be someone here," Eamon confirmed, the ink-pen twirling between his fingers. "If you prefer, they can stay anonymous."

The king nodded firmly, teeth gritted. Flora, seated beside him, appeared remarkably placid, considering the circumstances.

"Flo, how can you look so calm?" Alistair demanded, turning incredulous eyes on her. "Don't you feel any _pressure?_"

"Well," Finian called out, malevolently. "She's not the one who needs to _rise to the occasion_, is she?"

As several in the audience chamber let out barks of appreciative laughter, and many more hid smiles; Alistair gritted his teeth. Flora took pity on him, putting her arm about his neck and planting a kiss on his cheek.

"You've never given me any cause for complaint in that area," she breathed, stroking his ear with her fingertips as she directed her words into his ear. "You don't need to worry. My beautiful king."

Such affectionate language was so uncharacteristic emerging from Flora's Herring-crafted throat that Alistair allowed himself to be temporarily distracted from the looming spectre of the wedding night. He smiled back at Flora, tapping her nose gently with his thumb.

"My _handsome_ queen. Are we finished for today?"

This last part was directed to Eamon; at which the arl gave a soft nod of confirmation.

"Aye, son."

There followed a general murmuring of relief, accompanied by the scraping of chairs across flagstones as the council members rose to their feet and headed _en masse _to the exit.

Alistair reached out for his betrothed's hand, only to find her fingers already stretching for his.

"Darling," he said, circling his thumb gently around each knuckle in turn. "Ready for lunch? A _late _lunch. Just me and you."

Flora nodded, smiling up at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: The inexperienced Elizabeth I kept copious notes during her council meetings so that nobody could alter them or leave anything out, so I thought it would be good for Alistair to do the same thing!
> 
> Lol I can't believe I just wrote 4000 words about administration? Can you tell I have spent many, many hours trawling through records of 16th century council meetings, lol.
> 
> A few definitions – a progress is a royal tour around the country, and demesne is the land owned by a noble.
> 
> Also of course the witnessing of a royal marriage consummation is an actual thing! Very important to prove that the marriage is valid, ahahaha.


	44. Mab the Midwife

Both former Wardens retired to the Royal bedchamber, where a table and two chairs had been placed in preparation for lunch. Flora stared at the array of food on offer – platters of meats, cheeses and pickled vegetables, roasted chicken in a wine sauce, strips of smoked haddock, a rich fruit-filled pie served with cream – and then turned her incredulous gaze on Alistair.

"Is all this for _us?"_

"I believe so, sweetheart," the king replied, plate already in hand as he headed towards the cheeseboard. "Does it meet with your approval?"

"Mm," said Flora, wide-eyed. "How much do they think we're going to _eat?"_

"I'm not sure, my love. You're eating for two, after all."

"More like two _hundred."_

Flora picked up her plate, with words like _subsistence crisis _and _harvest failure _echoing around her mind from the council meeting earlier. As Alistair piled his own plate high with hunks of fresh-baked bread, crab claws and roasted asparagus; she picked up a boiled egg and stared at it gloomily.

"Did you know, in Orlais, they let their cheese go _mouldy?" _Alistair said, through a mouthful of sharp Fereldan cheddar. "Big, thick veins of rotted _green_ running though! Absolutely disg- Lo, _what's wrong?"_

Discarding his plate without a second thought, the king strode towards his forlorn mistress, who was still incongruously clutching the boiled egg as tears ran down her face.

"Darling," Alistair breathed in dismay as he went to embrace her. "Is it the baby unbalancing you? Or something else?"

"All this food," Flora whispered, her voice trembling. "There's enough for a dozen mouths here. And there are refugees hungry on the docks. And what if the crops all fail this autumn? Everyone will _starve! _It's not fair, people have survived the Blight and now they won't have enough to _eat _\- _"_

Alistair's eyebrows shot into his hairline, and he drew his best friend close to his chest; thinking on how best to comfort her.

"Well, then," he said, at last. "Anything that we don't eat, I'll have it sent down to the refugees on the docks. Don't worry about the harvest, yet – we'll set up this grain deal with the Marches, and most destroyed towns have got their rebuilding committees already set up. Leonas is leading the South Reach efforts – Lothering is in his arling too."

A wet-eyed Flora nodded, her anxieties somewhat assuaged. Alistair peered at her for a moment, then ducked his head and kissed the dampness tenderly from each of her cheeks in turn. He had done the same many, many months prior, on a balcony of Redcliffe Castle overlooking Lake Calenhad; when she had seen the Archdemon in her dreams and woken up stricken by fear.

"My sweet-hearted girl," he cajoled, brushing his thumb over her full, turned-down mouth. "You must put aside some of your concern for _yourself, _love. You're so busy worrying about what people are going to eat in four months' time, that you haven't even touched your _own_ food."

Seeing Flora's shoulders slump, Alistair tried a different tack; dropping to his knees on the flagstones and pressing his ear to the swell of her belly.

"Our child is talking," the king murmured, turning wide hazel eyes up to her. "It's saying: _feed me, mother. I have inherited your appetite, and I demand eighty bread rolls and four hundred crab claws for lunch"_

Flora started to laugh, then froze as she felt the baby shifting position in her stomach.

"Oh, it woke up," she said, oddly enchanted. "It must have heard you."

Alistair blinked mutedly, and suddenly it was _his _turn to brush away a sudden dampness from his eyelashes.

They took a plate each and sat on the deep, velvet-cushioned bench before the widened window, the Amaranthine Ocean stretching out like an emerald tapestry in the background. Seagulls swooped and called out to one another; in the distance, a ship flying the crimson and black mantle of Starkhaven made its way west into the estuary.

Flora tore a large hunk of rye bread into strips, dipping each one absentmindedly into a honey and mustard sauce as she listened to Alistair talk. Mouth full, the king meandered from topic to topic; from a hideous nine hour long council meeting he'd suffered through the previous week, to the new Marcher horse that Teagan had purchased him for his birthday. Flora made the occasional comment or question, content to listen while satisfying the demands of her stomach.

Once both had finished, they talked about Oghren wanting to join the Wardens, then about the wedding night consummation. The pair spent nearly half a candle trying to speculate on what the gender of the baby might be. Alistair thought that it would be a boy – based on an old wives' tale about the volume of Flora's snores. Flora, on the other hand, had no idea – she was still trying to think of the being in her stomach as an actual _baby, _rather than the ambiguous 'little creature'. Privately, she didn't care what gender the baby was – as long as it was a _human_. In her more paranoid moments, Flora thought that all the Blighted essence she had submerged herself in over the months might have had some terrible effect on the baby's development.

_Please don't actually be a Hurlock, little creature._

Every so often, Alistair would put down his knife and pause his conversation; reaching out to touch Flora's face as though wanting to confirm that she was_ really _sitting at his side, her bare feet in his lap; and not miles away in a draughty cliff-top monastery. The third time this happened, Flora set her plate on the cushions and crawled into Alistair's lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her chin on his shoulder.

"I love you," she whispered, tilting her face towards his ear. "I promise this is real. It's not a dream; I _can't _dream."

Alistair embraced her in return, careful not to hug too tightly. His hand rose to stroke Flora's narrow back, feeling the ridge of her spine through the thin navy lambs-wool of her tunic.

"I wish I were marrying you tonight," he murmured, with a wry smile at his own impatience. "I want you as my _wife."_

Flora kissed the curve of his ear, the lobe thick and fleshy. She resisted the urge to nip at it with her teeth – an act which invariably led to them tangled together on the floor – and instead pressed her face against his neck.

"I've been your wife in all but name for months," she said instead into his warm, olive-toned skin. "Haven't I, though?"

"Of course you have, baby." A secretly delighted Alistair brushed away thick ropes of dark red hair to kiss the back of her neck in return. "You've always been _mine."_

Just then, there came a tentative knock at the door. Finian advanced into the Royal bedchamber with one hand dramatically placed over his sole remaining eye.

"Is it safe to look?" he enquired, a touch melodramatically. "One never knows, when one is coming into a room where you two have been left to your own devices. Is my sister dressed?"

With exaggerated caution, the young arl peered between his fingers, exhaling in relief when he saw Flora fully clothed – albeit perched in Alistair's lap.

"The midwife is waiting in the corridor, and she doesn't have a surfeit of patience," Finian informed them, taking a chicken leg from the leftover food. "Shall I invite her in?"

At Alistair's nod, Finian returned to the door and nudged it open; calling through to those waiting outside.

"It's safe to enter; they're both fully clothed!"

To Flora's surprise, what seemed like half of Ferelden proceeded into the chamber. Wynne entered with Leliana, the two old friends conversing in earnest tones. Teagan came next, the bann shooting Alistair a quick glance of warning.

Alistair blinked, bemused, and then a familiar Orlesian-accented voice came drifting across the room. He sat bolt upright; Flora, in slight shock, almost fell off his knees.

"_Alistaaair!" _announced Isolde, a brazen smile writ brightly across her features as she entered on Eamon's elbow. "It has been _far_ too long, dear boy."

Alistair shot Flora a look of fleeting alarm, then helped her carefully off his lap; crossing the chamber to cordially greet the woman who had made his childhood years a misery.

"Lady Isolde," he said, careful and polite as she kissed him on both cheeks. "I didn't realise that you were in the city. You've come for the coronation?"

"_Oui," _replied the arlessa, her autumn-coloured eyes surreptitiously sweeping the Royal bedchamber. "Though, I admit – I've not received as many _social_ invitations as I would have expected since I've been back."

"Isolde, you did try and hide the existence of Connor," Eamon murmured, a slight edge to his tone that suggested that he had not yet fully forgiven his wife. "It would have been a far greater scandal if Ferelden had not been in the midst of a Blight. You ought to be grateful."

Isolde glanced downwards, her painted mouth turning south at the corners. Flora, who felt oddly sorry for her, crossed the room to stand at Alistair's side.

"My parents were so ashamed of me being a mage that they sent me away in secret," she offered, softly. "At least Connor will never know what that feels like. You wanted to keep him."

Isolde met Flora's eyes, embarrassed; the older woman recalling the many times that she had slighted the girl for her common accent and unpolished manners.

Fortunately, the tension in the room was broken by the arrival of Fergus, who was chatting easily to an old woman who possessed a dwarf-like squat, broad-shouldered frame. Her steel-grey hair had been cropped above her shoulders, and she carried a large leather bag beneath her arm. The brusque demeanour of the stranger suggested that she was a woman who never allowed anyone to carry her baggage for her.

"This is Mab," announced Fergus, as the old woman swept beady eyes about the chamber. "Highever's longest-serving midwife. Every babe born in Castle Cousland for the past thirty five years was delivered by this good lady. Myself, Finn and Floss included!"

_And Oren, _the teyrn thought, with a brief twinge of sadness. _My poor boy._

Finian gave the woman a little wave, clearly intimidated by her presence.

"Hullo, ma'am."

Mab muttered a half-grunted greeting, the words emerging in a timbre that immediately drew Flora's attention.

"You're from _Skingle," _the youngest Cousland said, pale eyes igniting with recognition as she named the village just to the east of Herring.

Mab's small, dark eyes immediately settled on Flora, taking in the oxblood hair and distinctive full, sulky Cousland mouth.

"Florence Cousland," she said, her words shaped by the northern coast in a slightly different manner to Flora's. "Lost an' found again. You've grown since I last saw yeh."

Flora nodded, searching her mind for any memory of this barrel-chested woman. Mab started across the room, stopping abruptly when she spotted Alistair. She eyed the crown on his head for a moment, and then shot him a belligerent look.

"'Scuse me for not bowin'," the midwife said, with typical bluntness. "I got a bad back."

"That's quite alright," replied Alistair, fascinated by the brusque northerner. "Thank you for travelling this far east."

"Mab is the best midwife in the teyrnir," added Fergus, proudly. "She hasn't lost a mother or babe in five years."

Alistair, who had lost his own mother during childbirth, blanched a fraction. Swallowing the acidic bile that had surged upwards in his throat, he distracted himself by promptly asking another question.

"You delivered Flora, then?"

The woman grunted, dumping the leather case unceremoniously on the bed and unfastening its buttons.

"Aye. Big brute of an infant she was. Tore poor Lady Eleanor to shreds on her way out. _Full two days and nights of labour."_

Flora's jaw dropped in horror, her fingers instinctively groping for Alistair's hand.

"But you were worth it," he murmured reassuringly, squeezing them tight against his palm. "I bet you were an _adorable _baby_."_

Mab continued in business-like tones, taking out a cloth measuring tape.

"Ugly pink shrimp. I'll never forget all that wild _ginger_ hair atop that oversized head. Evil reptilian eyes."

"She's right, Floss," Finian called from beside the dinner table, mouth full of smoked salmon. "You were a _hideous _baby. I called you Ratface for a year."

'Ratface' herself looked slightly perturbed, her brows drawing together as Alistair was unable to stop himself from spluttering out a snort.

"Well," interjected Teagan, feeling rather sorry for her. "Florence has grown into a beautiful young woman. And I'm sure that she and Alistair are going to produce a comely child."

Flora smiled at Teagan, appreciating his gentlemanly attempt to come to her defence. The bann hastily averted his eyes, taking a swig from his hipflask.

Mab took out a leather pouch, uncorked it with her teeth, and proceeded to pour the watery contents over her hands; letting the runoff trickle onto the flagstones.

"Come on, lassie," she instructed, with a blunt gesture towards the bed. "Up you get."

"Is that seawater?" Flora asked, nostrils twitching in recognition as she clambered up onto the furs, settling back against the cushions.

Mab nodded, unceremoniously whipping the cushions from behind Flora's head so that she was lying flat on the mattress.

"I ain't used to having an audience," the midwife said after a moment, shooting a glance towards the other occupants of the room. "Not even the teyrna had a half-dozen people in with her. Loosen your dress."

"We do the same thing in Herring," Flora said from the mattress, expertly loosing the fisherman's knot securing her bodice. "The seawater. Our midwife – Bess – swears by it."

Mab let out a little sneer, lip curling as she opened up the folds of the dress to reveal ripe breasts contained by a strip of cloth, and a substantial swollen stomach.

"I know Bess," she said after a moment, nose wrinkling. "Got in a fight wi' her once over a bucket o' crabs."

Flora nodded solemnly, as the nobles in the room exchanged incredulous glances.

"Right."

Mab fell silent, a professional demeanour setting over her florid, wind-blasted features as she reached out to run her hands over the swell of Flora's stomach. She pressed her fingers into the ripe flesh, measuring the mound with the span of her hands.

Alistair – who, naturally, had not been present during the first midwife inspection twelve weeks prior – watched in fascination and a small, irrational air of protectiveness. He had to bite his tongue from asking the midwife to handle Flora's stomach with a little more gentility; grimacing every time Mab issued a business-like prod.

"It's fine, Alistair," murmured Wynne, noticing the king's anxiety. "It won't hurt the baby."

"It's a large babe," Mab observed, a moment later. "Feels good and strong – moving well, responds to bein' poked."

Alistair beamed while Flora blanched, recalling the midwife's comment about her own delivery _tearing the teyrna to shreds._

"How _large_ is it going to be?" she asked, tentatively. "Considering it's got to… come out. Is it going to _hurt _at all? I'm not very good at pain – I'm not really used to it."

_I used to be able to anaesthetise myself within seconds of an injury being inflicted; then heal the wound minutes later._

Mab let out an incredulous bark of laughter, eyeing the girl pityingly as she moved downwards.

"Of course it's goin' to hurt," she replied bluntly from between Flora's thighs. "It's alright. We'll tie up some rope for you to hold onto. Give you a bit o' driftwood to bite through."

Flora went even paler, her eyes going immediately to Alistair's face to seek some reassurance. He came to her side without pause, perching on the mattress and winding her fingers tightly within his own.

"Is there any way of making it – hurt less?" he asked, as inexperienced as she in such matters.

Mab snorted, shaking her head from side to side as she rinsed her fingers once again in the saltwater.

"No. Most you can do is hope that it's _quick_."

Flora brought her fingers to her mouth and began to bite at the nails anxiously, _Mairyn's Star _twinkling in the mellow late-afternoon sunlight.

"Floss, you'll be _fine,"_ Fergus sought to reassure his younger sister after a moment, seeing the fear naked on her face. "Oriana was terrified too, but Mother told me she was fine, eventually. I was down the end of the corridor, and I couldn't even hear her screaming after a while."

"Aye," Eamon offered, recanting the story of Connor's birth. The common theme between both men appeared to be that they had not been present during the actual labour; appearing only once baby had been delivered, cleaned and presented in a lacy gown.

"You'll stay with me?" Flora whispered frantically to Alistair as Mab ducked beneath the hem of her tunic. "You won't leave me?"

The king kissed her forehead, then raised their entwined hands to his mouth and kissed each of her knuckles in turn.

"Of course I won't leave, sweetheart."

"It won't be a pretty sight," warned Mab, doing something with her fingers that made Flora's eyes bulge. "Stop _tensing up, _girl!"

"Aah, your hands are _freezing. _Alistair, you_ promise_ you won't leave me? Even if it's not pretty?"

Alistair gazed down at his former sister-warden's face; lost in a sudden rush of memories.

_I remember – at Ostagar - when you were sick with fear after our first expedition against the Darkspawn, _he recalled, suddenly. _You were so frightened that you were sick over yourself in your sleep after a nightmare. I took you to the wash-tent and found you some spare clothing, and exhausted my supply of jokes in an attempt to cheer you up._

_How many times did we fall asleep curled together, stinking and covered in Darkspawn effulgence? You've seen me bloodied and cursing; I've seen you splattered by the froth coughed from the mouths of the dying. I remember when neither of us washed for a week because we couldn't find a spring large enough to bathe in; and we both smelt so bad that an entire tavern recoiled when we walked in._

"Maker's Breath, Lo," he murmured, softly. "Wild Marcher stallions couldn't tear me from your side."

"Promise?" she repeated, grimacing and peering down between her legs. "Ow."

"I swear on Ferelden itself, my love."

Finally, Mab withdrew her hands with a business-like cough, returning upright.

"All looks as it ought. Baby's resting nice and high. You've got some good muscle in that tummy, eh?"

"We walked from one end of the nation to the other," replied Flora, relieved that the inspection was over.

Eamon gave a small gesture to a nearby servant, who came forwards dutifully with a pouch of coin for the midwife. "So, the babe will be here by Harvestmere, you'd say?"

The midwife cast a final, appraising glance over Flora's stomach; before giving a nod of confirmation.

"Aye, my lord. Though since it's her first bairn, it's like to be late. And _you _can put your legs together now, lass – you look like a street-wench advertisin' the wares."

Flora obediently drew her knees closed, pulling the hem of her tunic down over her thighs.

Mab of Skingle accepted the heavy purse with a little grunt. With a northerner's wariness, she took out a coin and bit it to check the quality of the metal, eyeing Eamon with suspicion. Only once the coin's worth was proven did she tuck the purse away, delivering a laundry list of _dos _and _don'ts _to a bemused Flora.

"Stay away from Orlesian cheese and shellfish, keep in the shade, lie down if you feel dizzy. Chew on some wormwood bark if you feel nauseous. Once the first Kingsway frost falls, get your husband to salt the fancy tiles."

Flora nodded, having already forgotten what came after _Orlesian cheeses_. Fortunately, Alistair had whipped out the small pad of parchment he used to minute the Council meetings; and was frantically scribbling each piece of advice.

"Oh, and don't think of ugly people," the midwife delivered as a parting shot over her shoulder, shuffling her squat frame towards the exit. "Or the babe will be born with foul features."

"Like our little Ratface herself," Finian murmured evilly, receiving an elbow to the ribs from his elder brother in response.

"As _though_ those two could ever produce an aesthetically unappealing child," Leliana replied, withering scorn in her voice. _"Look _at them!"

The bard gestured an elegant hand towards where Alistair was leaning forwards on the mattress, face inches from Flora's own as she gazed up at him from the depths of the cushions. Alistair beamed back down at her, and moments later, the grin softened into a wondering smile. He tilted her face upwards with a finger beneath her chin; leaning forward to kiss her on the mouth. The room was still filled with a half-dozen people, yet they had eyes only for each other, barely noticing even as the others filed quietly out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: To clarify: Baby is not a Hurlock, lol, that's just Flora being unnecessarily paranoid! She's definitely not going to enjoy the process of giving birth though, she doesn't really cope well with pain considering that she's never really had to experience a great degree of it before.
> 
> Also, it makes me laugh to think of Flo as being an exceptionally hideous baby, lol. A massive, oversized creature who brutalised poor Eleanor Cousland on the way out, hahaha. Except since I'm pregnant, I can feel sympathy for her D: D:


	45. Leaving For Antiva?

Later that evening, the former Wardens and their companions – save for Morrigan, who was winging her way south towards the Wilds, and Sten, who had his own business – congregated on the top of the palace's loftiest tower. One of the great southern constellations drifted idly above them, half-cloaked in miasma and atmospheric effulgence. The moon hung low and full, a swollen version of _Mairyn's Star._

They had gathered about a makeshift campfire, an incongruous construct of kindling that seemed rather meagre when compared to the vast, pit-bellied braziers elevated on the ramparts above. Yet with the host of familiar faces gathered about the flames, blankets spread out and ale-flasks lying askance; it was almost as though the companions were on their travels once again, camped out in some isolated corner of the Fereldan wilderness. Only the pair of Royal Guard, tucked discreetly away near the rampart steps, disputed the illusion.

It was an unusually balmy evening, mild enough for Leliana to bare her tanned, muscled calves in short leathers. Zevran needed little excuse to unbutton the entire front of his shirt, reclining against a blanket and winking at a young steward who arrived clutching a tray of tankards. Oghren, who was laying off the bottle in preparation for the Joining, devoured his way through six and a half roasted sausages; wondering enthusiastically how many ladies he would be able to beguile with tales of Grey Warden heroics. This was met with stern chiding from Wynne, who reminded the dwarf of the Order's solemn duty and purpose - which did _not _include sleeping one's way around Ferelden.

Leliana produced a lute from the fold of the blankets, singing an old Frostbacks folk song in her distinctive, sweet-toned voice. The bard then sang an Orlesian love ballad, and despite Flora's patriotic distrust of anything from over the western border, she could not stop herself from listening, captivated, to the strange-tongued tune. Alistair preferred drinking songs to serenades, but there was something about the simple beauty of Leliana's verse that appealed to his sentimental side. Instead of interrupting with a request for _The Round-Bellied Redcliffe Brewer, _the king found himself following the melody of the music; barely daring to breathe as Leliana's dulcet tones drifted to the heavens. Once the bard had finished, she lowered her head modestly and set the lute down in her lap.

"The Maker has truly blessed us with a voice like yours," Wynne murmured, smiling gently through the fire-lit shadows. "I hope you're going to sing during the coronation."

"It has been requested, yes," Leliana confirmed, unable to stop a glow of pride creeping into her reply. "It'll be a little like the olden days, when I used to serenade wealthy patrons at _Halamshiral_. You've never seen such a rainbow spectrum of colour as when the elites of Celene's court are gathered together in their finery! It's _breathtaking_."

"Great idea," offered Oghren, a slight edge of malevolence to his tone. "And if the guests are out-stayin' their welcome, we could just get the _bride _to do a solo. That'd send the poor buggers runnin' for the hills!"

Flora shot him an un-amused look from where she was sitting cross-legged on a fur besides Alistair.

"I think a Herring wedding song would add a certain _specialness_ to the occasion," she insistently, defiantly. "Nobody can resist dancing when they hear the opening of _Bones In The Sand _or – my dad's favourite - _The Dead Sailor Returns To Drive His Lover Into Madness."_

"Intriguing names," purred Zevran, gulping down another swallow of ale. "Though I can't imagine the natives of Herring _dancing, _somehow, _nena."_

"Oh, we know all the northern dances," retorted Flora, immediately. "We also have some _local_ dances unique to Herring."

"Like what?"

"Like… _the octopus."_

Flora waved her arms vigorously about her head; Alistair ducked to avoid a flailing hand. The others gaped wordlessly, struck into momentary silence.

"I can't do _the lobster _because of my stomach," Flora confessed, slightly out of breath. "I'll have to show you at Satinalia."

Alistair reached out to anchor her fingers in his; bringing their conjoined hands to his mouth so that he could kiss her knuckles. She smiled at him, shy and pleased at his affection.

"I can't wait to see it," he murmured, an involuntary beam spreading over his face. "I can't _wait_ for the day after tomorrow, actually."

Oghren let out a snort, leaning forward to prod at the fire with the tip of his short-sword.

"You've been complainin' about the coronation every time I seen you for the past month! '_I hate formal occasions, I'm king already, see this crown on my head, why do we need all these formalities?'"_

Alistair made no immediate reply, his thumb brushing gently over _Mairyn's Star _as he clasped Flora's fingers in his. Lifting his arm, he drew her against his side, suddenly anxious about the increasingly chilly breeze. The warm envelope of his arms was too inviting to resist; within minutes; she was snoring quietly into his armpit.

"But I've been desperate to make Flo my wife for months," he said softly at last, his thumb stroking a circle into her arm. "I can't wait a moment longer."

"You may have to _write _to me about the details of the ceremony itself, _amor_."

Alistair's brow furrowed as he turned his head towards the elf. The former Crow was silhouetted behind the temperamental flames, the drifting sparks reflected in his watchful, coal-dark pupils.

"What do you mean, Zev?"

"There is a possibility that I may not be here."

When Alistair gaped, the elf hastened to explain.

"You have several Antivan trade princes attending the ceremony. With such powerful influencers removed from the country, it would be the perfect opportunity for me to return and begin the process of dismantling the Crows."

It was a flimsy excuse, the words emerging as brittle and unconvincing as the rationalisation itself. Alistair's brows drew together, his mouth already dropping open to protest.

"Zev, _why- _"

"Bedtime," Leliana chirped quickly, taking a steely grip on Oghren's collar and hauling the dwarf upwards with surprising strength. "Come on, let's go."

Wynne propelled herself to her feet with the aid of her staff – the senior enchanter was far too proud to accept a hand. Within minutes, the rooftop was deserted save for elf, king and snoring future queen; the three of them gathered about the campfire with only the stars left to eavesdrop. Even the Royal Guard had been dismissed – which, in their vernacular, meant that they now stood several steps down as opposed to atop the tower itself.

Flora yawned against Alistair's shoulder, slumping gracelessly forwards until she was face-down in his lap. The king stroked his hand absentmindedly down her back, his brow creasing further into pre-existing indentations as he gazed at Zevran.

"You're leaving? You can't leave."

The elf inclined his chin silently, avoiding Alistair's stare as he would a poisoned dagger-thrust. Alistair paused to gather his thoughts, shaking his head slowly from side to side.

"But – I thought that- "

"You thought that I would stay at your side forever?" Zevran retorted, giving a smile laced with a flash of Antivan defiance. "An exotic elven ornament to augment the court? I have my_ own _plans for the future, you know. There is only so much of this damp Fereldan climate that I can take."

"I know," repeated Alistair, quietly. "But – I thought that you would stay for the coronation. Maybe join us on the progress around the country. I thought you'd want to stay until the baby is born - it's only twelve weeks away."

The elf glanced towards Alistair, eyes dropping to where Flora lay snoring inelegantly in the king's lap. Loose wisps of hair curled about her face, erratic as fraying strands of fishing net. 

"I _want _you to come with us on the progress," Alistair cajoled, deciding to lay the guilt on heavily. "There could be bandits. Pockets of Darkspawn remaining. Without Flo's shield, she's vulnerable. Besides myself, there's no-one I trust more than you to keep her safe."

Zevran grimaced, aware that he was being coerced but unable to ignore the truth embedded in his friend's words.

"It'll break Flo's heart if you go," Alistair said softly, changing tactic. "She adores you. She _loves_ you, Zev. You can't leave now, she'll be devastated."

The elf nodded with a small sigh, knowing that the king spoke the truth. With feline agility, he clambered around the perimeter of the campfire, coming to rest beside the two former Wardens. Reaching out, he let his richly tanned hand rest on the nape of Flora's neck; the elegant, tattooed fingers in stark contrast to her pale skin. She let out a little grunt in response to the contact, fingers curling absentmindedly into her palm.

"Ah, but I'm a selfish creature," the elf said, half-laughing without a shred of humour. "To be loved - and to be befriended by - _mi sirenita_ is a great thing."

Sensing that the elf's resolve was wavering, Alistair determinedly pressed home the advantage.

"Please, stay," he implored, hazel eyes boring into Zevran's coal-dark pupils. "At least until the baby is born."

There was a silence, during which Alistair held his breath; not daring to look away from their former Crow's face. Finally, a rueful smile tugged at the corner of Zevran's mouth and the king breathed an inward sigh of relief.

"Eh, I cannot say _no_ to such a handsome face," the elf murmured, raising slender fingers to pat Alistair's bearded cheek. "Especially since you are the _king _now, _mi amor. _Who knows, you might decide to lock me in the dungeons! Although, if _chains _are involved, I may not be too averse to that prospect."

Zevran laughed at the flush that rose to Alistair's face, and the throaty Antivan cackle was enough to rouse Flora from her impromptu doze.

"Ooh," she yawned, pushing herself out of Alistair's lap on sleepy elbows. "Was I snoring?"

"Like a drunken soldier, my love," Alistair confirmed, reaching out to smooth a hand over her rumpled, dark red head. "Anyway, here's some good news – Zevran is going to stay until after the baby is born."

Flora, who had not even _considered_ the possibility that the elf might be departing any sooner than that, immediately turned a distraught face towards him.

"You were thinking about leaving?" she breathed, alarm writ across her features. Her pale grey irises flickered with reflected firelight, the gold fleck left by the Archdemon's soul glinting like pyrite. _"Leaving?"_

Zevran reached out and put his fingers on her sleeve, fingering the skin beneath the navy lambswool.

"No, no, no- " he hastened to reassure her, not wanting to be the cause of any undue distress. "No, I am afraid you are stuck with my lechery and witty remarks for the immediate future_, mi reina_."

"Good!"

Flora leaned towards the elf and put her arms around his neck, still anxious despite his assurances. Zevran embraced her in return, patting between her shoulder-blades in an effort to put her mind to rest. Looking up, his gaze met Alistair's, and the king gave a slight nod of gratitude. Flora, feeling her heart slowly settle back into a normal rhythm, exhaled in relief. She pressed her lips impulsively against the faded markings on the elf's cheek, moving her mouth to his ear.

"_Guess what."_

"Eh, _carina?"_

"Alistair and I have to _do it _in front of a priestess and someone from the Landsmeet," she said gleefully, as Alistair let out a groan. "Isn't that strange? Nobles are peculiar."

Zevran cackled, cheering up immensely as he shot the scowling king a malefic grin.

"Ah, the traditional _witnessing of the consummation! _I admit, it is a ritual long since died out in Antiva."

_Typical Ferelden, two Ages behind the rest of Thedas, _the elf thought with a snort, a grin curling the corner of his mouth.

Flora, who had never known- and, in her new capacity as queen would now _never _know – privacy, seemed far less anxious about the prospect than Alistair. Despite the coolness of the evening, several beads of sweat had risen to the king's forehead.

"It's a lot of _pressure," _the Theirin insisted, stubbornly. "I mean, who would get… _in the mood _with some wizened old bat from the Chantry muttering away within arm's reach? And – Maker forbid – _Eamon _on the other side of the screen."

This was a sobering thought for both Flora and Alistair, their eyes meeting in alarm.

"I don't think it'd be Arl Eamon," she said at last, uncertainly. "Maybe it'll be some minor bann we don't know."

Zevran let out a cackle, leaning elegantly to the side as the wind bent a thin tendril of smoke from the campfire towards him.

"Well, if you need another witness, _let me know," _the elf offered, gleefully. "I have heard stories of these old wedding rituals. The bride is stripped naked by her women and put into bed; the husband brought along by the menfolk shortly later, often accompanied with lewd jokes and provocative verses."

"Stripped naked by _which_ women?" Flora asked, bewildered. "I don't understand. _Noblewomen?"_

The only two noble women she knew were Anora Mac Tir and Isolde Guerrin. This prospect was so utterly horrific that her mouth fell open in dismay; eyes widening.

"Oh, no!" she croaked, plaintively. "I'd rather let the _Archdemon _undress me. Can't I just take off my own clothes? Or ask Leliana?"

Meanwhile, Alistair was still quietly obsessing over the daunting prospect of _performing on demand._

"What if I can't… _get in the mood?" _he demanded in a low, urgent hiss. "I'll be a laughing stock. They'll lampoon me in the market square. The taverns will have a field day. _The man who couldn't take his wife on the wedding night."_

Flora, suppressing her own nerves in the face of her best friend's anxiety, reached out to put her hand on his arm.

"I'll help you," she assured him, earnestly. "Don't worry."

The three of them watched the makeshift campfire burn out; there was no more fuel for it to consume and the disconsolate flames sunk ever lower. Sparks drifted towards the heavens, the flecks of red and white standing out stark against the gloom, illuminating the faces of those still in attendance. Zevran's expression was pensive, Alistair still grimacing at the prospect of the wedding night. Flora's head was nodding forwards with tiredness; the baby had leeched her energy especially vigorously that evening.

Eventually, they were driven inside by a faint, misting drizzle. Flora, who would have barely noticed the fine shower if she had been awake, was too busy snoring against Alistair's chest to protest. King, unconscious mistress and elf made to part ways outside the Royal bedchamber; when Alistair realised that Zevran intended to spend the remainder of the evening alone, he invited him in to play a round of Wicked Grace.

The round soon turned into three, and then five; Flora slumbered in contented, dreamless oblivion on the bed as the king proceeded to lose thirteen gold coins to the sleight-handed elf. Zevran pocketed his winnings with a grin, promising to spend at least _part_ of it on a gift for the baby. Once the midnight bell had rung and the watch changed, Alistair made his way over to the bed, not even bothering to take off his boots before slumping facedown beside his snoring lover. For a moment, the elf pondered departure – there were always a few doors guaranteed to open for him, no matter how late the hour – but ultimately lingered on in the stuffed arm chair beside the fire, thoughts meandering idly as the dark tide of sleep crept ever closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I love writing campfire scenes! Haven't had one so far this story. I like the thought of Alistair still wanting to do the things they used to do when they were travelling, even though he's now king and living in a palace, hehe.


	46. Good Morning

By the time that Flora awoke to the pallid grey light of pre-dawn spilling across the flagstones, the armchair was empty. She yawned deeply, un-entangling herself from the furs on the bed and propping herself up on an elbow. As though sensing that it's mother was awake, there came a little exploratory nudge from within her stomach; Flora rested a hand on top of the swollen curve and thought _good morning._

A moment later, she realised that the baby would be formed enough to hear, and repeated the greeting out loud. This felt stranger in many ways than saying it inwardly – a practise she was used to from years of conversing with her spirits.

A snore from behind drew her attention, and Flora looked over her shoulder to see Alistair sprawled naked across the blankets, one hand flung in her direction. She leaned over to press her lips against the back of the king's head; feeling a sudden surge of affection as she saw him clutching a blanket embroidered with herringbone – a traditional pattern of the northern coast. He let out a blurred rumble in his sleep and she pressed a second kiss to his ear, fierce and tender. 

Unable to fall back asleep once she had risen, the yawning queen-to-be wandered over to the window bench and settled herself on the velvet cushions, leaning back against the stone wall and watching the crimson sun inch leisurely above the eastern horizon. Molten light spilled across the glasslike surface of the Amaranthine Ocean; a feat impossible to replicate on the perpetually restless waters of her native Waking Sea.

The night steward, hearing activity from within, peered around the door and inquired if there was anything he could bring her. Out of habit Flora began to politely decline, and then arrested herself abruptly mid-sentence. The strange urge to _gnaw_ on something organic had returned; if a wooden spoon was not brought to her within minutes, Flora was relatively sure that she was going to start chewing on the furniture. These sudden, irresistible cravings struck without warning – often at inconvenient moments - and she was utterly helpless in the face of her body's peculiar desires.

When Alistair awoke an hour later, Flora was still sprawled in the window seat; gazing down at the waking movements of the city below while fervently licking a wooden spoon.

"Morning, baby," he murmured, dragging a hand over his rumpled head and yawning. "Having fun?"

Flora extracted the spoon from her mouth and eyed the chewed wooden length, bemused at her own odd compulsions.

"Yes," she said at last, sinking her teeth once more into the mangled handle as she returned her gaze to the estuary. A ship bearing a yellow and black standard in the shape of a skull was just making a leisurely final approach towards the harbour. It was a vast and flat-bellied galleon, dominating the smaller trade vessels to either side.

Alistair pushed back the heavy furs and clambered upright, ambling across the dawn-lit floorboards without a stitch of clothing. Her best friend's well-sculpted form was the one thing guaranteed to distract Flora from the sea; she eyed his nakedness surreptitiously as he came to stand beside her.

"My little beaver," Alistair said fondly, fingers sliding through her hair to cup the back of her head gently. "I wonder whose standard that is? Looks rather _sinister, _if you ask me_."_

Flora reluctantly averted her eyes from the taut muscle of Alistair's abdomen, gazing down at the stately vessel as it glided across the pond-like stillness of the estuary. A flicker of memory ignited in the back of her mind, and she reached out to flutter her fingers against her companion's elbow.

"Oh! I _know," _she exclaimed, recalling Leliana's cards of Theodesian leaders. "It's the P-Pantleghosts. Pentagoons. _Pentaghasts."_

Alistair intercepted her hand at the wrist, raising it to brush his lips lightly over her fingers; lingering against the cool, weighty sphere of _Mairyn's Star._

"Ah, of course. The ruling family of Nevarra. They're meant to be dragon hunters, so they're probably a bit mad. Plus – this'll make a shiver go down your spine, baby – they sponsor _death cults. _Explains that flag."

The wooden spoon dropped from Flora's mouth as she turned startled eyes on him, eyebrows rising into her hairline.

"_Death cults? _What's a death cult?"

Alistair lowered himself to the window seat beside her, one foot propped against the wall as he leaned back on the stone.

"They take out the organs from their dead and pickle them in vinegar," he said, with enthusiasm but not a great deal of accuracy. "Then they stack them up in rows in great stone standing tombs. And every year, they bring them out and parade them about the city!"

Flora gaped at him, her startled eyes now as round as silver coins.

"No! _Really?"_

"Something like that," he replied blithely, then laughed at her expression. "Is that the face you're going to make when we're formally introduced tomorrow?"

Flora scowled, turning disapproving eyes on the Pentaghast ship as it dropped anchor in the still, green waters below. She suspected that her Herring stoicism and Cousland composure might be _extensively_ tested over the next few days; as they were introduced to a string of Thedas' most eccentric foreign notables.

A grinning Alistair reached out to turn Flora's face towards him, thumb caressing the high angle of her cheek.

"This coronation rehearsal is going to take _hours," _he murmured, leaning purposefully forwards on the bench. "Give me a kiss to keep me going."

Flora was more than happy to oblige, wrapping her arms around the king's neck and parting her lips readily against his own. One kiss quickly turned into several, each becoming more heated until she was in his lap, his lips roaming down the hollow of her throat and her hand working between his muscled thighs.

Unfortunately, the morning's commitments would not wait, and a firm, staccato knock sounded at the door.

Alistair, flushed-faced and teeth gritted, muttered a curse under his breath.

"Don't stop, sweetheart," he instructed in an unsteady voice, pushing into her soft, small fingers. _"_Almost, _almost - "_

Another knock came, soft yet insistent.

"Your Majesty? The Chancellor is in the entrance hall."

The king groaned at the news of Eamon's arrival. He reached ill-temperedly for a cushion to cover himself as Flora withdrew her hand with an apologetic grimace.

A moment later, Guillaume entered with a pair of servants in tow, struggling with a full bathtub. Water splashed over the flagstones, and the Nevarran shot the servants a beady-eyed glower.

"Your Majesty, Lady Cousland," the steward murmured, bowing expertly as he turned towards the window seat. Well-aware of what he had interrupted, not a flicker passed across the silver-bearded man's face. "I hope you both slept well."

"Morning," said Flora placidly, leaning back against the glass and pulling the striped Theirin-crested nightshirt down over her thighs.

The king was less inclined to be amiable. Discarding the cushion, he stalked naked across the room to pour himself an ale; muscled, golden and leonine.

"Eamon's _early,"_ he complained, emptying the flagon ill-temperedly into the tankard. "The eighth bell hasn't even rung yet. How long is this rehearsal going to take?"

"From _Canticles _through to _Threnodies, _I'd wager," came Fergus' voice wryly from the doorway. "Floss, I'm not making any assumptions about your state of dress – are you decent?"

Once Flora had confirmed that she was indeed decent, the teyrn removed his hand from his eyes and stepped fully inside the room, Finian close behind him.

"It's been years since Grand Cleric Elemena has had an opportunity like this," Fergus continued, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on Alistair's face. Meanwhile, Finian was ogling the king unashamedly; giving his sister a little gleeful thumbs-up behind Fergus' back.

"She's definitely going to take advantage. Prepare yourselves for a _monologue _of epic proportion!"

"How much of the Chant can she fit into the span of a day, do you think?" Alistair replied with a little snort, unable to stop himself from smiling at the prospect of tomorrow's ceremony. Despite his complaints and grumbling, he was inwardly chafing at the bit with impatience; unconcerned about the crowning, but desperate to have his bond with his mistress formalised.

"At least six hundred verses," replied Fergus, inspecting the fresh-painted fish pattern above the hearth. "Eight hundred, if she's feeling ambitious. And she's _deaf, _so she won't be able to hear your pleas for her to stop."

"_Maker's Breath!"_

Eamon was not kept waiting long in the entrance hall – Flora prided herself on her punctuality and grew unduly anxious if she believed herself to be _late. _Seeing his mistress shifting fretfully from foot to foot, her fresh-washed hair hanging in thick, wet ropes down her back, Alistair duly picked up his own pace.

* * *

Less than half a candle length later, they were riding through the noble district, flanked by the usual escort of guards. It was the type of summer day more suited to Orlais or Antiva than Ferelden – a cornflower-blue sky unblemished by cloud, the sun an unblinking tourmaline lion's eye. The heat radiated from the cobbles and surrounding buildings; the smoke and animal-scent of the city mixing with the salt-edged sea breeze.

Alistair rode with the reins in a single, confident hand, keeping one arm curled around Flora's belly to anchor her in place before him. She was sitting in her usual position on the saddle, trying not to look too rapidly from side to side in case her damp ponytail whipped him in the face.

_Not looking_ proved to be an increasingly difficult endeavour, especially once they entered the city proper. Every canal-bridge and lamp-post bore the conjoined Theirin-Cousland legend, depicting the intertwined lion and laurel. The banners hung down, long and weighty; their colours fresh-embroidered. Flowers and garlands had been planted in hastily-constructed planters and barrels alongside the main thoroughfares of the city.

To Flora's astonishment, crimson ribbons had also been tied onto tavern signs and balcony-railings; woven through the wheel-spokes of carts and wrapped about the staves of the city guard. With a sudden, sharp poignancy, she recalled the raised pikes and staves of her gathered army, the crimson ribbon tied defiantly to each one. She was suddenly glad that she had not been awake to see the immediate aftermath of the final battle; to see the broken remains of these weapons trodden into the bloodied mud. There had not been excessive casualties against the Darkspawn horde, but their forces had not escaped without losses.

Most people had not yet realised that Flora was back in the city, and so the first part of their journey passed relatively unimpeded. Yet news travelled faster in Denerim than through the dormitories of the Circle; by the time that they neared the Square of the Bride, the crowds had come out in full vigour to see their handsome Theirin and his betrothed.

Although Flora had received substantial attention when she was riding to the docks with Teagan for her feast, the prospect of seeing both king and mistress together proved a great lure for the crowds. The people of Denerim flocked to the streets as the procession approached, streaming out of taverns and leaning out of upper windows. Their cries melded together into a general roar of approval; the occasional distinct call standing out amongst the rest.

"_Welcome back, Lady Cousland!"_

"_Congratulations!"_

"_Show us your belly!"_

Although the city folk knew better than to come too close to the king's horse – besides which, the closed-face ranks of the Royal Guard were too intimidating to broach – Flora still felt herself pressing reflexively back against Alistair. The noise, the heat, the crowd of excited faces and open mouths - all melded together into a swell of overwhelming stimulation. Grateful for her haughty, impassive Cousland features; Flora relied on the natural coolness of her expression to disguise the anxiety that lay beneath.

Even the famous Cousland ambiguity was not potent enough to fool Alistair. He tightened his grip about Flora's waist, ducking forward to nuzzle his face against the back of her head.

"Not much longer, darling," he murmured, kissing the pale curve of her ear. "They've closed the entire Square of the Bride to the public. We're almost there, see?"

Sure enough, the vast staggered spire of Ferelden's largest Chantry towered above the rooftops ahead, raised high like a cleric's chiding finger. Alistair let the reins rest and used his strong thighs to keep himself astride in the saddle as he raised a hand to acknowledge the crowds. There was a swell of sound in response; bright faces with their mouths open calling out to their king.

"_Theirin! Theirin!"_

Suddenly proud of her best friend for embracing a role that he had once so vehemently rejected; Flora sat up a little straighter on the saddle, feeling Alistair's arm tighten around her waist in response to her movement.

_If he can do it, I can do it._

As they turned into the wide promenade that led into the Square of the Bride, Flora twisted her head back towards the crowd. Forcing the natural coolness from her face, she smiled at them; hoping that it wasn't coming across as a maniacal leer.

From the immediate calls and delight that followed; it was clear that her smile had not offended. Alistair snorted, pressing his lips swiftly against the back of her head.

"Either you stopped glowering, or you just flashed them," he whispered, grinning slyly into her ear. "Which was it, baby?"

"Oh, _definitely_ just flashed them," she replied, solemnly. "And they all think you're a lucky man."

Alistair laughed out loud, lifting the reins once again as they passed into the Square of the Bride.

"You can say that again, sweetheart."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alistair definitely has some pretty inaccurate information about the Nevarran death cults and their practices – but I thought that would be pretty realistic, considering the unreliability of information and difficulty of communication at the time.
> 
> When Flora was Warden-Commander, she had other things to worry about – such as the rapidly approaching Darkspawn army and ARCHDEMON! – so riding within large crowds didn't faze her at all. Now that she can fully focus on the huge mass of people all staring at her, it's a little disconcerting.


	47. The Wedding Rehearsal

The sounds of the crowds died away as the high stone buildings reared up to either side; the Square of the Bride was home to some of the tallest structures in the city. The Chantry administrative offices ran along one side, decorated with a series of relief panels depicting the life, death and redemption of Andraste. Opposite, the Templar headquarters rose, stern and without décor, save for the flecked-sword banner hanging from a dozen iron fixings along the face of the building.

On the far side of the Square, Ferelden's largest Chantry was built atop a raised stone terrace; accessible by flights of parallel steps. It was built in sympathetic manner to other Chantries within the region, but on a far vaster scale. Three towers loomed overhead, their shadows long enough to cloak the entire Square in gloom when the sun was high. The embroidered Chantry sunburst hung down from various metal fixings, each lofty standard the height of a merchant's warehouse. A great circular stained glass window faced east, the shards of dyed crystal gleaming with a prismatic sheen in the morning sunlight.

It had been months since Flora had last been here – even when she and Alistair had been residing in the palace; she had preferred to use the smaller chapel within the castle itself. Now, gazing up at the vast, imposing edifice of Ferelden's oldest and grandest Chantry, she realised quite _how _large and imposing it was. Recalling how she had been alarmed by the size of the crowds gathering on the streets, Flora felt as though she was seeing the city with fresh eyes.

_I suppose, before, the final battle loomed so large that everything else faded into insignificance. Now that the Blight is over, I see the world for what it is._

_This city is large. Everything is so tall._

They dismounted on the cobbles before the great twin flights of stairs leading upwards to the Chantry entrance. As the party began to climb the fifty four basalt steps, retainers led their horses away to some discreet stabling. The sun continued to beam in radiant approval from overhead, and by the thirtieth step, Alistair felt beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead.

"Teagan thinks it's going to be a hot summer, my love," he called upwards to Flora, who was plodding determinedly several steps ahead of him. "Feels like it."

"_Threety-two, threety-three – _oh, that means a good harvest? Lots of crops?"

"Sweetheart, are you still fretting about people starving in the autumn?"

Flora shot him a gloomy look of confirmation over her shoulder. Alistair took several steps at once, catching up to his companion easily. Sliding an arm around her waist, he kissed her tenderly on the cheek and climbed the remainder of the steps at her side.

A familiar trio of figures stood beside the carved oak panels of the entrance doors. Flora beamed, delighted to see Wynne, Leliana and Zevran conversing quietly as they waited.

"Leliana," Eamon murmured in place of greeting, as the bard also discarded the usual pleasantries and advanced towards them. "Have the arrangements been made?"

Leliana nodded, fluttering an elegant hand towards the doors.

"All is as you requested, Arl Eamon. I'll perform the role of the Grand Cleric for today. Will you stay for your part?"

The arl shook his head, gesturing to where Teagan was just ascending the last of the steps.

"My brother will take my role for today," Eamon replied, wryly. "I remember the last coronation all too well; I need not a practice."

"Good morning, _amors_," purred Zevran meanwhile, advancing towards Flora with the merry eyes of a rogue. "A kiss from the blushing bride?"

"I'm not blushing," replied Flora, pressing her lips obligingly to the elf's tattooed cheek. "I'm _burning. _It's so hot on the east coast. Oh, you have a – _here_."

She reached up, touching her finger to the edge of Zevran's ear; intercepting the progress of a small, wispy-legged spider as it descended from some dusty overhead eaves. Letting it drop gently onto the stone terrace, Flora smiled at the elf; then shuffled towards Leliana's imperious beckon. The bard, who was scandalised by the prospect of tomorrow's ceremony being marred by unsightly sunburn, was eager for the pallid young Cousland to get inside the gloom of the Chantry.

As Leliana followed in Flora's wake, she leaned forward to whisper in the elf's ear.

"And _breathe, mon cher."_

Zevran exhaled in a rush, shaking his head with a small growl of frustration. Leliana darted a quick glance over her shoulder, shooting him a look as though to say: _even now? A sunset before she marries another man?_

_Even now_, the Antivan thought, defiantly. _Permit me my foolish fancy._

Meanwhile, Flora had stopped still within the entrance to the Chantry, one booted foot over the threshold. The elongated space inside was even higher and deeper than she had remembered; twin lines of granite columns thicker than the oldest tree trunks running from door to transept. Andraste's eternal flame blazed at the far end, set into a sunken copper trough so that the writhing tongues of fire appeared to rise miraculously from the tiles themselves. High above, patterned glass windows high in the vaulted ceiling cast imperious patterns on the flagstones.

Yet all this Flora remembered, for it had been such when she had last visited the Grand Chantry. Instead – just as when she had stepped into the Royal bedchamber after Alistair's redecoration – her eye was drawn to that which was _different_.

Just as in the entrance hall of the castle, a multitude of familiar banners now dangled from the great columns. The colours of Highever hung adjacent to the ancient arms of Denerim, and every other banner was the conjoined lion and laurel; commemorating the union between Theirin and Cousland. Long vines of laurel had been woven through the back of every pew, their elongated oval leaves pale and soft as fresh mint. Tall braziers had been placed at intervals, crimson ribbons wrapped around their bronze supports. More scarlet drapery hung from the alter; cut into slender skeins to emulate the token once carried by Flora's armies. Each tallow candle had been replaced with a luxuriant equivalent moulded from beeswax, radiating warm, honeyed puddles of light across the basalt tiles.

Voices called out to one another, echoing up to the lofty murals painted on the walls. A pair of Chantry brothers scuttled between hanging incense gourds; the first polishing and the second refilling. More servants wound the final skeins of crimson ribbon into place, chattering in excited undertones. High above, affixed by some ingenious means, long strands of laurel had been draped across the vaulted parapets. Interspersed with crimson roses, they formed an organic curtain overhead, turning the light filtering in from overhead into a pale, milky green.

Flora stood as though she had been paralysed; her eyes wide with sheer disbelief. Alistair came to a halt just beside her, an astonished grunt escaping his throat.

"By Andraste's holy bosom," he breathed, receiving a swift elbow from Leliana for the profanity. "You mentioned some decoration, uncle, but I wasn't expecting _this."_

Teagan laughed, letting the door swing shut with a low, muffled thud in his wake.

"Does it meet with your approval?" he asked, mildly. "I know neither of you are inclined to fuss and ornamentation, but we've got representatives from all over Thedas attending tomorrow. Each one ready to gauge Ferelden's post-Blight capacity."

Flora, who in the latter weeks of the Blight had worn her hair constantly in a symbolic – immediately recognisable- crimson ponytail, understood full-well the importance of _putting on a show. _She shot a quick glance across at Teagan, still awed by the Grand Chantry's transformation.

"Surely all this isn't for me and Alistair? It's too much!"

"For the union of Cousland and Theirin: the two most powerful dynasties in the nation?" Leliana interrupted, stepping forward to gesture widely; fingers curling towards minor details not obvious on first appraisal. "Heroes of the realm both? _Non, _it is not too much."

"Huh!"

Every pew contained a stiff parchment card depicting a different cost of arms – from the crossed spears of Vael to the silver lion's head of Valmont. These were to denote where the various dignitaries of Thedas would sit – ranked by order of allegiance to Ferelden, rather than by prestige alone. The Marcher representatives – with whom Eamon hoped to forge new trade routes – were placed front and centre.

Flora tilted her head back, inhaling the fragrant smell wafting from the roses and feeling Alistair's anxious eyes on her. The king knew well that Flora's Herring-instilled sensibilities would be incredulous at such expense and show for something so uncomplicated as a marriage; which could be performed simply by expressing and consummating such a bond before the Maker.

_It is an expense. But remember – this is for show. It's to show everyone that Ferelden has got a future._

"It's lovely," Flora said softly, smiling at Teagan and bowing her head. "What an honour, to be married in such beautiful place. Thank you."

Alistair exhaled in slight relief, his fingers reaching out to twine affectionately into her own.

"Right," continued the bann, glancing at the position of the sun through the great stained glass windows. "The marriage ceremony will come before the coronation, so that you can be crowned king and queen together after being made man and wife- "

There came a loud sniff from somewhere amongst the bann's small audience. Teagan broke off, gazing across at Alistair in surprise. The king went a minor shade of pink, slightly embarrassed at his own sentiment even as his eyes welled up.

"Sorry," he muttered, as Leliana cooed under her breath and advanced forwards with a silken handkerchief. "I just – _anyway. _Keep explaining, don't mind me."

Flora squeezed her best friend's palm tightly against her own, feeling him immediately return the firm pressure.

_I adore you, _she thought, hoping that her sentiment could pass from her flesh to his. _I adore you more than anything. _

" – after that's finished, you'll proceed down the aisle and emerge at the top of the steps; where the crowds will be gathered in the Square of the Bride. You'll return to the palace for the wedding feast and celebrations, and then – _ah - _"

The elf gave a little cackle, dark eyes lighting up.

"Then you'll be put into your marital bed together," he murmured, snickering like a schoolboy. "And perform for your audience."

Flora darted a quick glance up at her lover, just in time to see him swallow, hard. She gave his hand another reassuring little squeeze, feeling a corresponding pressure on her fingers.

Teagan coughed and continued, addressing his words to the great statue of Andraste at the far end of the aisle.

"I've put a stop to some of the bawdier traditions. Don't worry, Alistair, nobody will try and break into the bedchamber with a cup of _bride's broth _to fortify you. Flora, they won't be pulling your clothes off in an attempt to steal your garter!"

"Damned right," muttered Alistair, bristling defensively even as Flora's jaw dropped. "I'll put up with the witnessing to make sure the baby can't ever be named _bastard,_ but that's _it. _And if anyone tries to pull Flo's clothes off, they'll be _pulling_ their sword from out of their own- "

"_We are in the house of the Maker!" _interjected Leliana, as a Chantry sister squeaked nearby.

Teagan nodded, with a little grimace of sympathy.

"Aye, lad. I don't blame you. Anyway, we should get underway with this practice – I'll stand where Eamon stands for now, and Leliana can be our Grand Cleric. Finian appears to be delayed – would somebody be Fergus until he arrives?"

Zevran raised his hand with a game grin, always desiring to be involved.

A short time later, the assorted Chantry sisters and brothers had withdrawn to the chapels and side-chambers, and a stillness fell over the great, hallowed hall. Alistair, Leliana and Teagan stood near the alter on a specially raised step at the front of the Chantry; the light from Andraste's flame flickering across their faces.

Alistair was caught between anticipation and frustration that this was _only _a simulacrum of marriage. If it had been up to him alone, he would have wedded his mistress the very day he brought her back from Revanloch. Teagan was busy running through the chronology of proceedings in his head, though the bann was reasonably sure that Leliana would not allow him to disorder events. The Orlesian bard seemed determined to prove her efficiency; perhaps desiring to garner some international attention.

Leliana did not quite dare to don the lofty helm of a senior church official, but she had draped a violet-tinted _surplice _over her lay-sister robes and bore an additional air of haughty eminence.

"_Florence!"_ she called, projecting her voice with bardic skill directly down the central aisle. "You have to wait until the drumming starts. Don't start walking just yet."

At the very back of the Chantry, beside the great wooden doors, Flora squinted down at Leliana's diminutive figure. She was waiting alongside Zevran, who was tapping his fingers somewhat agitatedly against a carved stone relief.

"What did she say?"

"'_Wait until the drumming starts to start walking',"_ Zevran repeated, whose sharper ears had heard the bard's enunciation.

Flora blinked at him for a moment, nonplussed.

"_Drumming? _Whaa- "

The elf returned her confusion with a shrug, one eyebrow rising.

"I don't know, _carina."_

Flora fell silent, her brow furrowed. Teagan, Alistair and Leliana appeared to be deep in conversation at the far end of the Chantry; king listening with bemused attention as the lay-sister gesticulated enthusiastically.

Unable to hear their discussion, Flora turned her attention to Zevran. The elf was bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, humming under his breath. She reached out a gentle finger to touch the fine, silver-blond tendrils of hair, which now reached partway down the elf's back.

"Your hair is getting long," she observed, twisting one lock around her finger and watching the pink nail go white. "You could wear it in a plait if you wanted. A nice fishtail braid."

The elf grinned at her, his amusement discoloured only by the faintest shadow.

"Will you braid it for me later, _mi sirenita_? I find my fingers awfully _clumsy _in recent times."

Flora crossed her eyes at him, knowing full well that this was an untruth. The elf had the quickest hands of all their companions; his gestures swift as a salmon darting through patches of dappled sunlight. Zevran let out a little cackle, lifting his eyes to the heavy vines of laurel suspended from the ceiling.

"Putting on quite a show, aren't they? I hope you're ready to be centre-stage, _nena."_

Flora shrugged a shoulder, her stomach letting loose a plaintive grumble. She dropped a hand to her belly, rubbing her palm soothingly over the plump mound.

"I feel like I've been _centre-stage _since we were at South Reach," the young Cousland replied, mildly. "I'll have to grow used to it."

The elf smiled back at her, a touch wistful. Flora, willing her stomach to stop grumbling, focused instead on the wide, basalt-tiled central aisle that she would soon be traversing.

"It's so _long._ Am I supposed to _walk _the whole way down? It's going to take ages. Can't I… jog?"

Zevran snickered, dark cat-eyes flickering reflexively towards a nearby movement in the shadows. A pair of drummers, their instruments suspended by straps around their necks, emerged with sticks held aloft; clearly waiting for some signal from the distant bard.

"Ah, as _amusing _a sight as that would be, _mi amor, _I fear that it would not be permitted."

Flora scowled, then jumped a little as a slow, measured drumbeat began; wooden stick striking taut leather in a formal, almost militaristic pulse. The sound echoed to the vaulted ceiling, amplified by the acoustics of the centuries-old building. From the raised altar, Leliana made an impatient, imperious gesture with her hand, a clear signal to proceed.

"Alright, my dear _hermanita," _murmured Zevran, as Flora continued to gawp with naked astonishment at the drummers. "Are you ready for a little role play?"

"Yes," she replied, only half-listening. "What is 'role-play'?"

"_Excelente. _I shall be the wicked sinner confessing my lusty escapades, and you can be the sweet young Chantry sister, who can't help but be _fascinated _by my sexual prowess."

Flora eyed him dubiously and the elf cackled, relenting and offering her his arm to take.

"I jest, _mi florita. _I shall, of course, be the Teyrn of Highever, ready to give away my lovely little sister."

She slid her arm through his offered elbow, curling her fingers into his leather-clad sleeve.

The drummers continued their stately rhythm as Flora and Zevran proceeded down the aisle, passing pews reserved for some of Thedas' most prominent figureheads. Zevran, who had the more musical ear, kept their tread in time to the slow beat of the drums.

"Don't charge off like a ship in full sail," he murmured from the corner of his mouth. "Patience; Alistair is not going to _leave _if you don't get there soon enough."

"I'm starving," Flora mumbled in reply. "The sooner we finish this, the sooner I can have some lunch. Wait, did I hide a _snack_ in my tunic?"

At the front of the Chantry, Alistair shifted from foot to foot; his own stomach giving a rather ominous rumble.

"Is that hunger or nerves, Alistair?" Leliana asked, smiling even as she kept her eyes trained hawk-like on the two figures approaching down the central aisle. The sun was shifting slowly into its highest stance; rays of jewel-coloured light beaming down onto the dark basalt flagstones.

"A bit of both," the king replied honestly, forcing himself to take his eyes from his mistress and look at the bard. "I can't believe I'm going to _marry _Flo tomorrow. She's going to be my wife – my very _own _wife – and nobody will ever be able to part us. I've dreamed of this for… longer than I'd care to admit, uncle."

A soft laugh escaped Teagan's throat, the bann's mouth curling into a rueful smile.

"Only one-and-twenty years of age, and desperate to wed," he murmured, wryly. "When I was your age, marriage was the _furthest_ thing from my mind. I was more concerned with horses and comely stable-lasses."

"I wager you'd have felt different if you'd known a girl like her," countered Alistair, confidently.

Teagan paused for a moment, then let out a soft bark of laughter.

"Aye, lad. You're probably not too far from the mark, there."

Meanwhile, Leliana had also become a little distracted thanks to a servant placing a bundle of linen-wrapped objects discreetly on the bench of the Royal pew. When she turned her gaze back to the central aisle, a squawk of disbelief flew from between her lips like an un-caged songbird.

"_Flora! _You cannot _snack _on your journey down the aisle!"

Those waiting beside Andraste's eternal flame returned their eyes to the middle of the Chantry. Sure enough, Flora was sitting in a pew about halfway between doorway and transept, munching contentedly on a pear while Zevran tried to cajole her into continuing.

"The baby _hungers,"_ Flora called back earnestly through a mouthful of fruit. "I have a maternal obligation to feed it."

"Lel, the baby needs to eat," an anxious Alistair repeated, turning his gaze on Leliana as they stood near the altar. "Maybe we should pause for lunch."

The bard's nostrils flared almost the width of the Chantry, her eyes like focused darts of disapproval.

"_Ahem! _This is the girl whom _I personally witnessed _eating six bread rolls, four apples and an entire cauldron of cooked eggs when breaking her fast this morning. The baby is plenty nourished; it's your _betrothed _who is a slave to the unnatural demands of her stomach!"

A proud Alistair beamed at his mistress as she pushed herself upright from the bench, reaching out for Zevran's arm so that they could continue their journey down the aisle.

"I appreciate a girl with a healthy appetite," the king murmured, fondly.

Finally, after much humming of disapproval from Leliana, Flora and Zevran arrived at the foot of the three shallow steps that led up to the central platform. The drumbeat escalated into a loud, crescendo roll and then abruptly ended; the lingering sound echoing about the vaulted eaves.

Alistair began instinctively to head down, and then froze as Leliana let out a hiss of instruction.

"_Arrêtez! _You cannot just go and _embrace _her. There are traditions that must be followed!"

Alistair let out a small huff of impatience, but allowed himself to be led back up beside Teagan. Leliana, resplendent in her borrowed mantle of authority, cleared her throat.

"Alright, 'Fergus' – are you _listening?"_

Zevran dragged his attention reluctantly from a pair of slender young Chantry sisters, smiling with brilliant white teeth up at the increasingly irate lay sister.

"_Sí. _I mean, _'aye'. _I, Teyrn of Highever, am here."

"You must first remove the fur from around Flora's shoulders – no, it is an _imaginary_ fur for today – and let it fall to the floor. Then you kiss your sister and pass her to 'Eamon'. _Not on the mouth, fiend!"_

Flora, who was caught between amusement and bemusement, laughed as Zevran changed course at the last minute; planting his lips on her cheek. Turning, she saw Teagan extending a hand towards her, and went dutifully to take it. Leliana nodded, gesturing for Teagan to lead Flora up the three steps towards an impatient Alistair.

"Now, Alistair – stop, you can't just _grab _your bride like the choice cut of meat from a roasted boar! 'Eamon' will lead your bride to you, and you need to place your own 'fur' around her shoulders."

Alistair's brow furrowed, blinking down at the Chantry robe which had suddenly appeared in his hands courtesy of a hovering servant. He gazed down at Flora in perplexion, even as he did as he was told and draped the robe about her neck.

"I don't understand," he started, brow furrowed. "What's the point of this _fur-swapping?"_

Leliana opened her mouth to clarify; but to everybody's surprise, Flora piped up with her own explanation.

"It's from when Andraste gets married to Maf -Maferon," she said, mangling the latter's name. "She wore furs from her family home into the marital bedchamber; his Mabari didn't recognise the scent and almost attacked her. So she had to abandon all her old furs and wear the furs of Maferon's house. We used to tell the story in Herring."

Leliana nodded in slow astonishment, her finely plucked eyebrows lodged within her hairline.

"It seems that the old Alamarri traditions are kept alive in the smallest villages of Ferelden" she murmured, stepping forwards in preparation to emulate the Grand Cleric's role. "You are quite right, _ma petite. _Except, it's _Maferath."_

"I'm going to sweat like a pig," Flora added, with gloomy resignation. "Who wears FURin the summer?"

Slowly but surely, the audience in the Chantry was beginning to swell. Curious sisters and minor brothers lurked in the shadows of the thick basalt columns; Cousland retainers perched themselves in the pews and Royal Guardsmen lined the far wall. All eyes were trained on the odd collection of figures gathered at the transept of the Cathedral; king, mistress, elf emulating teyrn, bann representing arl, and a lowly lay sister clad in the elegant mantle of a senior priestess.

"So after you both confirm your identity – and make sure you get your names in the _correct_ order this time, Flora – you will exchange rings," Leliana continued, adjusting the angle of the lofty hat. "Flora, make sure that _Mairyn's Star _is on your other hand."

Flora, who had been mouthing _Florence Chastity Popelyn Ragenhilda _to herself, suddenly looked stricken.

"I haven't got you a ring," she breathed to Alistair, wide-eyed. "I didn't realise I was supposed to, I'll go to the market now- "

Leliana reached out, letting a reassuring hand settle on Flora's elbow as the latter quivered in distress.

"You didn't even know you were _getting married _until three days ago, _ma crevette. _Do not worry; Bann Teagan is taking responsibility for the rings."

Teagan nodded in gruff confirmation, and Flora relaxed a fraction. Alistair smiled at her, surreptitiously squeezing her fingers tightly within his own.

"Finally," Leliana continued, impatient to rehearse the more ritualistic coronation. "Arl Eamon will bind your hands together with a leather strap. A symbolic representation of your Maker-blessed bond."

"_Mi sirenita _should be used to that," purred Zevran, unable to resist. "It won't be the first time she's had her hands tied before Alistair."

"_We are in the Maker's house!" _Leliana hissed malevolently as the king went a deep shade of pink. "Keep your lechery to yourself."

"You're meant to be Fergus," Flora added solemnly, trying not to laugh. "Try and stay in character. He doesn't like it when we talk about bedchamber-activities."

Zevran assumed an equally sombre expression, then flashed her a little wink.

A lay brother came forward at the bard's gesture, clutching a long wooden case. Inside the case rested a number of assorted objects – a long silver-handled candlestick, an apple, a copy of the Chant; amongst various others. These were meant to represent the regalia of the kings of Ferelden; the authentic collection currently resting ceremoniously in the castle treasury.

Patiently, Teagan guided Alistair and Flora through the ritual-laden coronation itself. Alistair, as king regnant, would take the main role in proceedings – it would be he who would be presented with Calenhad's sword and Andraste's sceptre. Flora had merely to hold the Orb of Fionne – represented in this instance by a plump crimson apple – and a caged wren, which she was a little nervous about.

"Why does it matter that I hold out my _right _hand for the bloody sword?" complained Alistair, whose patience was wearing thin. "Will the Grand Cleric refuse to crown me if I get it the wrong way round?"

"Your brother and father both managed it well enough," countered Teagan, sympathetic to a degree but also aware of the importance of adhering to tradition. "Come on, lad. You can do it."

A guilty Flora, who had eaten half of the 'Orb of Fionne', sought to deflect attention from herself.

"What's a sceptre?" she asked, eyeing the silver-handled taper meant to represent this particular piece of regalia.

"A stick to beat your enemies with," replied Zevran, with a yawn. "Used to fend off would-be usurpers."

Flora's brow furrowed in confusion, and she looked to Teagan for clarification. The bann let out a sigh under his breath, aware that the rehearsal was dragging on far longer than anyone had anticipated.

"Right. Let's run through it one more time. You alright with that, poppet?"

This latter query was directed to Flora, who was busy shifting her weight onto her stronger leg. Her bound knee was complaining bitterly after several hours spent standing on it; she could feel the leather strapping beginning to loosen around the weak joint.

"I'm fine," she replied stoically, avoiding Alistair's suspicious stare. "I'm afraid that _somebody_ has eaten the Orb of Thing though."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol poor Leliana, I feel sorry for her having to wrangle this lot into place! Between Alistair's impatience, Zevran's lechery and Flora stopping to snack every thirty seconds… hahaha. I think this coronation-wedding is going to be how Leliana really makes a name for herself within the Chantry.


	48. The Gwaren Restoration Committee

An hour later and the rehearsal was finally finished, the sun just beginning on its leisurely afternoon descent. It had lost none of its brilliance during its tenure in the sky; baking the mud between the flagstones and prompting the people of Denerim to unbutton their shirts and roll up the arms of their tunics. Still, even this uncharacteristically warm Solace afternoon could not stop them working with _especial _keenness, eager to finish the day's labour and begin tomorrow's coronation day holiday early. The taverns had already thrown open their doors; the more reputable dwellings housing musicians that played excerpts from Leliana's bardic epic _The Lion and the Light. _The _less_ reputable establishments echoed with the explicit version of _Warden Flora, we adore her, _and other bawdy songs that had sprung up based on the reputedly _vigorous_ bedroom proclivities of their youthful king and his solemn-faced mistress.

The only citizens not partaking in these celebrations were the refugees that had formed the so-called _restoration committees; _the groups that were determined to return to their devastated homelands and see them rebuilt. These gatherings of men and women took place in tavern basements and vacant guild-halls, trying to get as much as possible accomplished before tomorrow's holiday. They were assisted in their efforts by the presence of their local liege lord, who would be responsible for coordinating the response and securing funding. Bann Teagan had gone straight from the Grand Chantry to the meeting of men and women from the arling of Redcliffe. Eamon's _demesne _had not suffered extensively from the Blight, but there were a handful of villages on the south-eastern border of his territory that had been destroyed.

Likewise, Arl Leonas, the Bann of Calon and Bann Reginalda had each gone to oversee proceedings in their own restoration committees. Leonas' familial seat of South Reach had been ransacked by the horde to build their siege weaponry, and the new general was quietly determined to see it restored.

The only restoration committee who had no noble patron to oversee its efforts, was the southern teyrnir of Gwaren. Loghain was now co-leading the Fereldan Wardens, and his daughter – having lost all noble claim after the attainting of the Mac Tir name – resided under heavy guard within Denerim's noble district.

Even if either Mac Tir had taken an interest in overseeing the rebuilding of Gwaren, the residents were determined to reject their efforts. Gwaren had been one of the earliest provinces swarmed by the Darkspawn, and its people could not forgive the utter inaction of both former queen and regent in the face of their plight. Therefore this committee laboured alone in its efforts to organise materials and funding, with no noble patron to oversee efforts or campaign on its behalf. The two main sources of income for the town were its dock and its fishing industry; both utterly devastated.

The mayor of Gwaren, a man so short and stocky it was rumoured he had dwarven ancestry, was currently listening to a litany of problems recited by the master of the fishermen's guild. Without a patron, the Gwaren committee had not managed to secure respectable premises to meet, and so they were gathered in an abandoned storeroom in the warehouse district. Fortunately, it was a sunny day and the gaps in the rafters did not matter overmuch; though the rats scuttling along the borders of the room did somewhat distract from proceedings.

"First problem is, we can't get nothin' back down south," piped up Tadric, the bearded fisherman who was the most outspoken of his peers. "It's too difficult to get materials over the hills, and 'alf our ships have sailed off to the Marches."

"With half of our people," chimed in a sad-faced merchant, fingering his moustache.

"And they've _took _everything they could get their hands on," added a flush-cheeked fishwife, who had lost her husband during the Blight. "The jetties and piers have fallen into the sea. Our nets are gone. The lobster pots scattered to the corners of the Amaranthine Ocean."

The mayor banged a tankard on the table, irritably. They had agreed to try and retain a sense of _positivity and optimism; _so far, nobody had stuck to their own rule. The table, being uneven, wobbled in precarious manner.

"So, first priorities are to secure ships and wood," he repeated with a nod to his scrawny adolescent son; who was serving as scribe. "If we can get at least one or two piers back in operation before summer-end, we might have a chance of gettin' some autumn trade."

"Because _ships _are such an easy thing to come by," muttered the merchant, still pulling at the drooping ends of his moustache. "And the nobles own all the trees. It's _poachin' _if we just start choppin' em down."

Just then, there was a slight commotion from the entrance. Booted metallic footsteps echoed about the crumbling stone walls of the warehouse, and a troop of a half-dozen Royal Guard proceeded to make entrance. They formed two ranks at either side of the door; pikes held straight and aloft.

" – going to be _late _for your wedding dress fitting_," _hissed an irate Orlesian voice from the passageway. "You'll be wearing a baggy _sack _tomorrow, and have nobody to blame but yourself."

"When I was a child in Herring, I wore a sack for a _year, _actually,_" _came an indignant, northern-tinged reply, the accent deceptively low-born considering the noble blood of its progenitor. "I can wear one at my wedding if needs be."

"_I despair!"_

The assembled citizens of Gwaren gaped at the door and then at each other, utterly confused. However, those that had been at the refugee's feast several weeks prior soon recognised that distinctive accent.

"Quick!" hissed the mayor, shoving his chair back and nearly falling over in his haste. "On your feet! Get up! It's the lady Cousland."

Moments later, the lady herself arrived; shooting a slightly bemused glance at the ranks of Royal Guard standing at either side of the entrance. She was accompanied by an irate redhead clad in lay-sister robes, and a grinning blond elf with fading tattoos scribed on his cheeks.

"Hello," said Flora, eyeing the eclectic mix of merchants, fishermen and peasants gathered before her; who were half-risen from their chairs, too stunned even to bow. "My name is- "

"_The Hero of Ferelden!" _breathed the fishwife, a flush of disbelief rising to her cheeks.

"Florence Cousland," corrected Flora, slightly nonplussed. "I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner. We were rehearsing the wedding, and _someone _ate the Orb of Fionne, and then – anyway. It doesn't matter. I _hate _being late."

The mayor ventured a question, his hand creeping upwards like a shy initiate in a Templar classroom.

"Late, my lady?"

Flora nodded, advancing further into the decrepit warehouse, paying no heed to the rotten floorboards or cobwebbed rafters. There had been rats in the Circle tower – the resident cats were lazy and didn't venture much above the fifth floor – and so the rodents scuttling about the warehouse walls did not bother her.

"For your meeting," she said patiently, as a bearded man clad in a much-patched tunic scuttled to provide a chair for her. "It took ages to find out where you were. We got lost."

Pleased, Flora sat down with a little exhalation of air, reaching to tighten the loose strapping about her weak knee. The fishermen and traders of Gwaren darted small glances at each other from the corners of their eyes, uncertain how to proceed. They sunk back into their seats, one at a time; excited whispers quickly falling to a hush as she spoke once again.

"I want to help, if you'll let me," Flora said, blunt and without preamble. "With Gwaren."

There followed a small, astonished silence, a tentative and uncertain flush of hope appearing on the face of the mayor.

"What – what do you mean, Lady Cousland?"

"I know you have no one to support you," she continued, patiently. "You've lost your teyrn."

"Aye, my lady," replied the mayor, the words emerging slow and tentative. "With the fall of the Mac Tirs, we have no liege lord and no voice in the Landsmeet. Any assistance you could offer us would be _much_ appreciated."

"Well, we fishing communities ought to stick together," replied Flora, immediately. "Even though Herring and Skingle are _arch-rivals_, whenever Skingle has a problem with wreckers – or Herring loses a boat to a storm – we help each other out. Did you say you needed wood and ships?"

The mayor nodded mutedly, his eyes wide. Flora smiled, absurdly pleased that she was able to offer some genuine assistance – perhaps make a difference to the lives of these unfortunate refugees.

_I might not be able to heal this man's cough or mend that old lady's linen-bandaged arm. But I can still help them._

"My brothers have promised to assist me," she said, stifling a grimace of discomfort as the baby swung a gleefully malicious foot into her kidneys. "Highever wasn't Blighted, and they have wood to spare. There's a whole host of ships at Amaranthine, where my other brother holds tenure."

"And they would be willing to assist us?" asked the mayor warily, not quite daring to let the hope show in his tone. He was well aware of the old rivalry between Cousland and Mac Tir; a mutual mistrust reflected by the history of antagonism between their respective teyrnirs.

"Of course," murmured the Orlesian bard from her position leaning watchfully against the door frame. "Gwaren was once Ferelden's third largest economy, after Denerim and Highever. It must be restored, for the good of the nation."

"I believe that you will end up with _more_ than a few offers of assistance," added the tattooed elf wryly from the opposite side of the entrance. "The Cousland menfolk will naturally assist their sister; and nobody in the Landsmeet will be able to resist that lovely, earnest face, especially when it belongs to a _hero of the realm. _She need only make a request on your behalf and a dozen promises of aid will be thrust upon her. Not least from the king himself, who can refuse her nothing."

The dawning hope on the mayor's face at last began to spread to those around him. The people of Gwaren had suffered perhaps in even _greater_ degree than most of Ferelden. Like many others, they had lost land, livelihoods and loved ones with the arrival of the Darkspawn horde; but they had also struggled on as refugees for almost a year with no assistance from either Mac Tir.

Changing the subject, Flora leaned forwards on the table and dropped her voice.

"Tell me," she whispered, conspiratorially. "What kind of fish do you get in the _southern_ waters at this time of year?"

"Here we go on the fish tangent," Zevran murmured to Leliana quietly; the bard nodded and rolled her eyes.

"This time of year, we'd get a lot o' copper bream," one man offered after a tentative moment of silence – _who was going to respond to the Hero of Ferelden?_ "An' the lobster pots'd be full."

He was rewarded with such an uncharacteristic beam of delight that others began to pipe up, selfishly desiring a similar reaction from their future queen.

"Green-tailed pike, they'd be swarmin' round the legs of the southern pier."

"Only 'cause your Berne used to bait the waters there! Otherwise they'd be clumpin' in _my_ traps at the riverhead."

"Them whelk-fish should think 'emselves lucky they aren't getting caught up in our nets this summer. They'll be runnin' rampant."

Flora listened in fascination, her chin propped in her hand. Eventually, Leliana – who had been experiencing traumatic visions of the bride advancing down the aisle clad in a _literal sack_ – cleared her throat, pointedly.

"Alright," Flora said obediently, realising that the bard's nerves were wearing thin. "So, we need wood and ships. I'll speak to my brothers, after tomorrow."

The mayor nodded, aware of two dozen pointed stares prickling between his shoulder-blades. Flora had just risen from her chair, using a hand to propel her swollen stomach upwards.

"Ah – lady Cousland?"

She turned her pale, questioning eyes on him, searching as silvered lanterns.

"I think we're all in agreement, my lady... I know it's the _king,_ by rights, who awards things like this, but… we all _desire _it."

Flora watched the nervous man shifting from foot to foot. The entire gathered company had fallen silent; their hopeful faces were turned on hers.

"Would… would you consider becoming our new teyrna? We ain't got anyone in charge, and – and you've shown that you care. Noone else has come lookin' for us."

Flora was astonished; she had – rather naively – not considered the possibility of such a request. Out of fairness, she forced herself to mull over it, grateful for her face's neutrality.

"You honour me with this request," she whispered, bowing her head in their general direction. "And… if I wasn't becoming queen tomorrow, I would agree gladly."

_Maybe, _she thought to herself, remembering how quickly she had spurned the arling of Amaranthine. _Possibly._

The mayor nodded with a defeated slump; he had suspected as much. Flora gazed at them a moment, thoughtful.

"What about… Lady Anora?" she suggested, softly. "She was raised in Gwaren, wasn't she?"

"And did nothin' to save it during the Blight, she were so under the thumb of her father," replied a fishwife, indignantly. "She left us to be overrun by the Darkspawn. She ain't even been to see us."

Flora thought for a moment, biting on her lip anxiously. In her practical Herring mind, Anora was the most logical choice to be the new leader of Gwaren – it was the Mac Tir family seat, she had experience of governance and knowledge of Gwaren's unique trade patterns.

Yet from the creased brows and mutterings before her, it seemed that there was a long way to go before the people would countenance the return of their disgraced local dynasty.

"What if she came here – to one of these meetings – and made amends?" Flora suggested at last, one hand resting lightly on her stomach.

"It'd have to be a _lot_ of amends," said the mayor, eventually. "The name Mac Tir is spoken as a _blasphemy_ more often than not, nowadays."

"And the dynasty has been attainted," Leliana murmured softly from near the doorway. "Alistair would have to reverse the attainder to grant Anora any sort of authority."

Flora grunted; she was not overly worried that Alistair would refuse her.

"We'd rather have you as our _teyrna," _repeated a merchant, slightly sulkily. "Lass with a sensible head on her shoulders, and one who understands the workins' of a _piscicultural_ economy."

Flora bowed her head apologetically, deciding to pay Anora a visit in the immediate future.

"I don't need a title to be concerned with Gwaren's welfare," she said softly, letting her pale gaze meander from one anxious face to the next. "Alistair and I will rebuild Gwaren, as we will _all _the villages and towns destroyed during the Blight."

The people looked at Flora with bright new hope on their faces, and this triggered the sudden emergence of a memory, rising like flotsam on the surface of her mind.

_It's like when I was the Warden-Commander. The soldiers used to look at me the same way._

"_Ma petite," _murmured Leliana quietly, and Flora decided that the bard had been patient long enough. As she pushed herself to her feet, there was a great scraping of chair legs against wood as those present hurried to stand.

"When is your next meeting?" she asked hastily, seeing that the mayor was preparing to deliver an effusive - and unnecessary, in Flora's opinion- speech of gratitude.

"In a week," replied the mayor, wide-eyed.

Flora nodded, biting her lip as she thought on the timings.

"I'll speak to my brothers about the wood and the ships," she said, at last. "We want that sorted out before the progress."

"My lady- "

"It's _fine,"_ Flora said quickly, feeling a faint flush rise to her cheeks. "I hope the lobsters and whelk-fish enjoy their summer of reprieve, because the nets and crab-pots will be _back with a vengeance _by autumn."

There was a resounding murmur of agreement, and Flora was gratified to hear a distinct vein of optimism emerging in their muttered conversation.

As she, Zevran and Leliana – accompanied by the usual plethora of Royal Guard – made their way out into the sunlight; the elf turned around with a little, teasing smile on his face.

"I've had an idea, _carina."_

"Eh?" said Flora, who was trying to avoid the direct glare of the sun for fear of burning. "What?"

The horses were led forwards from the shade between two warehouses, their tails whisking briskly at the hovering flies.

"I think the sons and daughters of the nobility should _all _be sent off to be raised in little villages," Zevran continued, ascending onto his horse with a fluid grace as Leliana heaved Flora bodily up behind her. "If they develop such a care for the common person as you."

"Losing your home feels just as bad, whether you're a villager losing a little hut, or a lord losing a castle," replied Flora solemnly, her brow furrowed. "I'm glad that I can do something to help, even though I'm- "

_Useless, _she had been about to say, but now Flora was uncertain how_ true_ that actually was.

_I can still help. I can still be useful. Even without my magic._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol, I just wanted to use the word PISCICULTURAL! Which is like agricultural, but for fish. Yes I know that a peasant would not know that word in all likelihood, hehe.
> 
> I wanted to incorporate some mention of the rebuilding of Ferelden in this sequel, I feel like it's a subject that isn't often touched on – and it's the boring historian in me that wonders about HOW exactly you rebuild a country that's experienced something like the Blight? I think it'd be a little bit like the Black Death hitting Europe in the 14th century (with some warfare thrown in) – but, hey, we got the Renaissance as a direct consequence of that, so… there IS hope for Ferelden, maybe? Lol.
> 
> Anyway, I think it's good for Flo to have a project of her own – a role that isn't just Alistair's baby-making queen! I hope the changing pattern of her speech is coming across – whenever she's talking about Herring, the words are shorter and more abrupt; whenever she's talking about her Cousland brothers, or queenly role, she speaks more eloquently. And I haven't abandoned Anora - I think she's such a competent character, I'm not done with her yet! Since Loghain has been instituted as joint Warden-Commander of Ferelden, I think his daughter deserves a bit of redemption - I reckon we can persuade the men and women of Gwaren to accept her as their new teyrna!


	49. An Alamarri Wedding Dress

A half-candle later and they had arrived – better late than never – at the Guerrin manor, which was set in a prime location within the noble district. Eamon himself greeted them at the door, ushering them swiftly into the entrance hall. Flora wandered along in Leliana's brisk wake, recalling how she and Alistair had stayed here during the frenetic, uncertain days of the Landsmeet. She had realised the existence of her _little creature_ within the dining chamber of this very manor – finally acknowledging that which she had denied since the first horrible suspicions crept into her mind at South Reach.

They passed before the family portrait at the peak of the staircase – Eamon, Isolde and Connor, their painted plaster faces staring out blindly into the void of the hallway. Eamon led them down another wide, flagstoned corridor until they reached a familiar door – the chamber that Alistair and Flora had been assigned during their stay here.

"The dressmaker is all ready for you," the arl murmured to Flora, with a small smile. "I know that gowns aren't your usual choice of garb – I hope that you can tolerate one for tomorrow."

Flora let out a little grunt of assent, following Leliana into the chamber. It was just as she remembered – wide and airy, with the row of dancing Mabari painted above the hearth and a large, leaded-glass window that looked out onto the mouth of the estuary.

A slender woman with the narrow, clever features of a fox was waiting beside the bed, reams of material piled atop the blankets.

"At last!" she murmured, with a thick Redcliffe accent. "My lady, we have much to do. If you wouldn't mind leaving your tunic on the stool!"

"I'll leave you to it, Greta," said Eamon hastily, knowing that Flora had a habit of premature disrobing. "Let me know the cost of the materials."

"For the Hero of Ferelden?" the dressmaker retorted, incredulous. "No charge!"

Soon afterwards, Flora was standing in her smallclothes before the hearth; counting each painted Mabari beneath her breath as Leliana and the dressmaker exchanged swift, abbreviated conversation.

"Not the patterned wool," the bard declared, eyeing the crimson chequered fabric. "It'll be too warm with all the fur and leather. Remember, she'll be on her feet for several hours."

"Traditionally, the Avvar wore the tartan at their wedding ceremonies," Greta retorted, stretching a swathe of leather around a silent, compliant Flora's waist.

"Avvar brides also got their husbands to unpick knots to determine the length of their marriage," retorted Leliana, comparing the weight of two furs. "We're emulating the Alamarri in general, not just the Avvar."

Flora let the women move about her, raising her arms as required, her gaze drifting across to where Zevran lay sprawled in an armchair. A swathe of scarlet and tan tartan was draped across his thighs; as he sensed her stare, the elf lifted his leg atop the chair's arm.

"Does this pattern make me look more '_Ferelden'?" _he enquired with a wicked smile, knowing that – with his warm-hued skin, golden earring and pronounced accent – he could not look more foreign if he tried.

Flora smiled at him, and then squawked as Leliana yanked the strings of a bodice tightly around her breasts.

"I think you're already a little bit '_Ferelden'," _she replied, slightly breathless. "I haven't heard you complain about the blandness of the food for at least a day."

The elf snorted, sitting upright and eyeing her from top to toe. Although the dress was not yet completed, it was easy to see the general aesthetic that the Redcliffe dressmaker intended: traditional Alamarri, unsullied by the Orlesian influence that had crept into Fereldan fashion over the past decade. There would be no silk or velvet found in either king or queen's wedding outfits on the morrow, no lace sleeves or satin trim. Instead, their garb would be hewn from leather and fur in a clear statement: _we both are descended from the oldest humans in Thedas; from the great warriors who shaped the south in our image. Andraste Herself was one of our kind, as was the dragon-slayer Calenhad._

This political subtext was lost on Flora, who was merely bemused at the decision to wear such weighty materials _in the middle of summer._

"I'm going to _sweat like a pig,"_ she said plaintively as Leliana draped a bearskin around her shoulders. "Especially with my hair down."

"No, you won't," the bard replied briskly, removing the bearskin and replacing it with a dark sable fur. "The Grand Chantry is always cool."

"Save your sweating for later," Zevran chimed in, with a slightly malicious edge to his voice. "For when you and Alistair must _perform for your audience. _Ha! Is the witnessing of a consummation an Alamarri tradition too?"

The question was directed at Leliana, who snorted and gave a little shake of the head.

Flora grimaced slightly, having been so preoccupied with remembering the order of the coronation ritual – _was it take orb, then pass sceptre to Alistair, or the other way around? – _that the spectre of the wedding night had been temporarily banished from her mind.

"I forgot about that," she said, gloomily. "Leliana, can't _you_ be the Chantry sister who watches us?"

The bard laughed, removing fur and bodice before setting them down on the bed.

"I'm nowhere near senior enough to verify the legitimacy of a royal marriage, _ma cherie_."

Zevran eyed Flora's swollen breasts appreciatively for a moment, elegant tattooed fingers moving in idle patterns across the worn velvet chair arm.

"I have it on good authority that more than a _dozen _nobles have volunteered to witness the consummation," he purred, Finian having told him in bed that morning. "It seems that there are many keen to hear the sounds that the lovely lady Cousland makes in the bedchamber."

"Snoring?" offered Flora helpfully, as Leliana resisted the urge to throw a pin at the lecherous Antivan.

"Come now," retorted Zevran, crooking a wicked golden eyebrow towards her. "Not _just_ snoring, _nena."_

Flora thought for a moment, and then flashed him an innocent smile; her pale Mabari eyes wide and guileless.

"Not just snoring," she confirmed, then cackled as he grinned, shooting her a knowing look.

The edge of the sun brushed the western horizon, the pale peach hue of sunset shining through the leaded glass and filling the chamber with mellow light.

The baby shifted in Flora's stomach, woken by the echo of her laughter. The leather strapping around it's mother's knee had come loose; she was about to attempt to tighten it when a foot swung into her bladder. A second kick followed shortly afterwards as the baby tested the confines of Flora's belly, and she gave a reflexive grimace.

"Ow. Stop kicking me, you little _toad. _We're making you a _not-bastard_ tomorrow, be grateful."

"Sturdy creature," murmured Leliana, going to fetch Flora's navy tunic from where it had been abandoned on the bed. "At least it's not making you sick in the mornings anymore."

"Oh, it still does sometimes," replied Flora immediately, pulling the tunic on over her head. "It did the other day. Thank you."

This was in response to the sharp-eyed Zevran, who had had spotted the trailing leather strap at her knee and was now on his own knees before her; deft fingers skilfully pulling the thin band taut.

"_De nada, carina."_

* * *

By the time that they arrived back at the palace, the sun had half-lowered itself into the sky. It promised to be a fine day tomorrow – the sky was a blended mix of ochre and violet, with no ominous cloud brewing on the horizon.

The grounds of the palace seemed far busier than usual – many of the more esteemed wedding guests were staying within the castle itself. Wagons, horses and retainers clad in a spectrum of different liveries were clustered on the palace forecourt; a babble of excited foreign tongues rising up above them like some exotic effluence.

A dozen different banners were propped against the wall – thanks to Leliana's tutelage at Revanloch, Flora found that she recognised many of them. She spotted the silver and blue of Orlais, far more refined in pattern compared to the Marcher standards nearby; the _grand duc's _guards clad in the formal attire of Celene's court. The banner of the Pentaghasts – a black skull on a mustard field – was at the opposite side of the courtyard from the Vaels of Nevarre; the two noble dynasties had fallen out over a trade disagreement earlier that year.

There was also a heavy Templar presence – Flora recognised several familiar faces from Revanloch – due to the number of mages in attendance. The Empress Celene had sent her Court Enchanter; a woman with unmatchable poise who travelled in the style befitting a lady of her stature. In addition, there were a gaggle of Tevinter magisters who had come out of sheer curiosity; hoping to catch a glimpse of the reputed markings left by the Archdemon's soul on the body of Ferelden's future queen.

There was so much bustle and conversation within the courtyard that Leliana managed to secrete Flora inside a side-entrance unnoticed, aided by Zevran's loud and purposefully distracting flirtation with a pair of un-amused Templar several yards away.

Once they were inside the palace, Leliana led the way skilfully through the labyrinth of servant tunnels that circled the public areas of the palace, Flora's hand gripped tightly in hers. Servants were rushing back and forth, clutching sacks of raw ingredients, bolts of fabric, and garlands of flowers. Pairs of dwarves carried great barrels of ale between them, sweat dripping down their necks. With the coronation _and _wedding on the morrow, it was set to be the most significant occasion since the liberation of Ferelden; and there was a corresponding urgency in these last minute preparations.

"Why are we back here?" the young Cousland asked, following in Leliana's wake as they navigated through a busy set of corridors. "Ooh, is that the kitchens? It smells _good. _I wish the baby would let me eat meat, I miss chicken."

"Arl Eamon wants to keep you under wraps until tomorrow," replied Leliana, knowing the maze-like network of torch-lit passages like the back of her own lute. "All of your guests will be dining in the great hall later, but you and Alistair will be eating in your quarters."

Flora beamed; infinitely preferring this latter option.

They crossed the elevated passage that overlooked the Landsmeet chamber. Flora was unable to resist peering down through the window-slits at the darkened chamber, the rows of tiered wooden seating bathed in shadow as the unlit hearths sat like gaping mouths. The shutters across the Alamarri balcony had been left part-open to air the chamber; revealing a glimpse of star-studded sky.

Before they could step through the doorway leading to the Royal passage, Zevran took his leave.

"I'll see you tomorrow, _señoras_," he murmured, winking at Leliana. "I'm going to see if any of our Antivan guests remember me."

Although the playful tone of his voice implied some provocative intent, Leliana was well aware of the elf's true purpose: to drift amongst the foreign factions and blend into the background in the way that only an elf could, his aim to divine any ill intentions. Zevran had already secured access to the _grand duc's quarters _after beguiling Gaspard's Orlesian groom.

Flora opened her mouth anxiously, and the elf hastened to reassure her, lifting a hand to brush his thumb along her jaw.

"Don't fret, _hermosa novia. _I will be at your quarters in the morning to put some braids into your hair."

She smiled at Zevran, and he leaned forward to kiss her just to the east of her mouth.

One unobtrusive side door later and Leliana led them triumphantly into the Royal passage; the torches on the walls struggling to illuminate such a broad and lengthy corridor. The Royal Guard stood still as statues between the _actual _suits of armour; their pikes throwing long shadows across the flagstones.

The chief steward, Guillaume, was standing just outside the king's quarters, talking in muted tones to a servant. As Leliana and Flora approached, the Nevarran interrupted his conversation and turned to face them; sweeping into a bow.

"Lady Cousland," he murmured, clever eyes glinting in the torchlight. "Lay-Sister. I trust all went well with the dressmaker today?"

"Very well," replied Leliana, inclining her own head. "Florence, I imagine that Alistair is waiting for you. I'll see you after dinner, _ma chérie."_

"The king is indeed waiting," confirmed the steward, canting his chin towards the double doors leading into the Theirin chamber. "He's getting a tad anxious."

"Alistair gets anxious when she goes to the wash-chamber in the mornings," muttered Leliana, nudging Flora forwards. "Go on, put him out of his misery."

The guardsmen hurried to open the doors, revealing the Royal bedchamber in all its stark, rough-hewn native glory. The hearth had been piled high with fresh cedar-wood, and the spiked iron wheel hanging overhead gleamed with fat beeswax candles.

Alistair, still clad in the leathers he had worn during the rehearsal earlier that day, was pacing the length of the flagstones between the hearth and the bed. Turning swiftly as the doors opened, relief suffused the king's handsome features as his eyes focused on his fat-bellied mistress.

"Maker's Breath, Lo! I was about to head out with a search party."

Her former brother-warden strode towards her, pulling the crown impatiently from his head and setting it down on the dresser. Flora, beaming reflexively, went happily into his outstretched arms. Alistair embraced her close to his chest, one hand coming up to cradle the back of her head. He planted a half-dozen kisses into her hair, one brand of adoration following another.

"I thought you'd be back hours ago," he murmured, aware that he was being overly protective but unable to stop himself. "You were just meant to be going to the dressmaker, not wandering all over Denerim!"

"I did go to the dressmaker," Flora repeated indignantly into the muscle of Alistair's leather-clad chest. "_Eventually_. Anyway, I was with Zevran and Leliana. And six guards."

"Saela can't birth those pups soon enough," Alistair replied, thinking on Fergus' favourite Mabari. "Your brother has promised to train the fiercest pair to guard you and the baby. We need more dogs around the place, anyway."

Flora smiled vaguely at her overly concerned best friend, extricating herself from his arms and wandering over to the bed to pull off her boots. This proved to be easier said than done: her feet had swollen enough to test the confines of the leather.

There followed a rap at the door and a small procession of servants entered, carrying trays and tankards between them. Seeing a slender elven female buckling under the weight of a heavy platter, Alistair went to assist, taking the tray with a murmur of gratitude. Plates of meat, cheese and onion tartlets were placed on the table among bowls of stuffed eggs and sugared almonds. A platter of raw vegetables – with as much earth as the cook could bear to leave on them – was also included; catering for Flora's hormonal urges.

"Sweetheart," Alistair said, turning away from the freshly laid table and seeing Flora red-faced and contorted trying to remove her boots. "Let me help you."

Striding over to the bed, he sat beside Flora amidst the furs; pulling her legs up into his lap and reaching for her boots.

"Ouch, ouch- "

"I know, I know, baby. Sorry."

Once the offending boots were on the floor, Flora eyed her aching and swollen feet, belligerently.

"I don't understand _why _something growing in the stomach would make my feet hurt," she said in perplexion, letting her fingers drift idly over Alistair's head as he bent to rub her sore toes. "How is it connected?"

_I could have found out, when I still had my magic, _Flora thought ruefully to herself; Alistair's strong fingers working away the tension from her feet just as they had done for her sore knee. _I could see the body in my mind, easy as opening up a book. Easier, actually – I didn't need to learn how to read the crevices and fissures of flesh and bone; I just knew them._

_Why didn't I spend more time working out how it all fit together? How one part connected to another? I wasted so much of my gift, and now it's gone._

"Darling. Is that better?"

Alistair's voice punctuated Flora's reverie and she shook off her melancholy, smiling down at his handsome face as he gazed hopefully up at her.

"Much better. Thank you."

She reached out to put her arms about his neck, planting a grateful kiss on his cheek.

They ate together on the rug before the hearth; Flora ignoring the meat and gobbling down all the vegetables, Alistair readily consuming the chicken and beef cuts that she spurned.

Mouths full, they tried to recall the order of the coronation ritual that they would soon be enacting before the leading figures of Thedas.

"I pass you the scep- scorp- _fancy stick_," Flora said without any degree of certainty, handing him a fork intended to emulate a sceptre. "And then you do… something with it. Twirl it?"

Alistair looked down at the fork, his brow creasing in an effort to remember.

"Is that before or after I raise the sword?"

Flora took his meat-knife, giving it an experimental thrust upwards.

"I'd rather have the sword. I have to carry a _bird. Why _do I need to carry a bird? What if I drop the cage?"

For a moment, the two former Wardens gazed at one another in mutual bemusement before the fire. Finally, Alistair laughed and put down the fork, reaching out to stroke her cheek with the calloused ball of his thumb.

"It doesn't matter, darling. The most important bit of the whole thing is getting married to _you._ Everything else comes second to that."

Alistair lifted Flora's fingers to his mouth, as though he were not _king_ but a grown stable boy declaring his love to the local fisherman's daughter. Still clutching her hand, he leaned forward and let his lips brush against her ear.

"You're the light of my life," he murmured, delighted at the blush rising to her cheeks. "You know that, sweet girl?"

Flora dropped her eyes to her lap, suddenly made shy. Instead of replying, she brought their intertwined hands to her breast, letting him feel the steady rhythm of her heart.

"This beats only for _you_," she whispered, feeling tears prickling on her eyelashes that were not _entirely_ caused by hormonal fluctuation. "_Always_ for you."

Alistair gazed back at her, dampness gleaming within his own hazel irises; the green flecks illuminated by the light of the hearth.

"You two are so precious, it's making my teeth rot," commented a dry, familiar voice from behind them.

Finian – whose entrance had been announced by the steward but gone unnoticed – was hovering beside the table, picking at the leftovers. He grinned down at them, tossing an olive into his mouth before crooking an imperious finger.

"Floss, your birthday present is here. It's in our chamber."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: You know Flora isn't going to be dressed in some traditional silk bridal outfit and veil on her wedding day, haha! Everything about the coronation-wedding is symbolic and propagandised to some extent; even what she's going to wear. And some of Thedas' most famous denizens – Andraste, Calenhad, Flemeth, are Alamarri. Since Alistair is a bastard and Flora a former mage (deeply unconventional for a king and queen), I thought it made sense to publically emphasise their historic ancestry at the coronation - through their outfits.
> 
> I've always emphasised the Alamarri heritage thing way more than it comes up in game, because I find it so fascinating – I'm pretty certain it's based on Celtic culture. Calenhad is wearing a literal tartan kilt in his DA wikia page, the image of the Alamarri shows them painted in woad (Celtic face and body paint) and lots of the named Alamarri have Celtic-origin names – like Brona. Anyway, as a Welsh girl, I'm definitely into it, hehehe.


	50. Special Guests and Rebel Queens

Bemused, Flora and Alistair both followed Finian the short distance down the passageway to the Cousland quarters. Retainers clad in the family livery hastened to open the doors; heads inclined in polite acknowledgement of king and future queen.

With a triumphant flourish, Finian led the way inside the quarters once used extensively by Bryce Cousland. The hearth had been piled high with the same perfumed cedar wood as the Royal bedchamber, but these flames illuminated stark differences in décor. The laurel of Highever was painted painstakingly on the plastered walls; fabric accents of navy and olive permeated throughout. A framed family tree, carefully inked on parchment, hung above the hearth itself.

Fergus was sitting at the table, a polite and slightly bemused expression writ across his auburn-bearded face. Opposite him was a rotund, middle-aged man with florid and weather-beaten features. He was wearing a rather odd combination of clothing: a grubby linen shirt, a striped mustard and tan tunic, and a bright orange fishing hat. The entire ensemble was much patched and clearly well-travelled in.

Alistair thought at first that it might be some familiar face from Herring, but this theory was quickly dashed when his lover appeared equally clueless as to the man's identity.

On seeing them, the man rose awkwardly to his feet; not used to being in such esteemed company.

"Floss," announced Finian from behind her shoulder, pride suffusing the words as they emerged. "I'm very pleased to introduce _Wulfric Letholdus, _formerly of Honnleath, currently of Dragon's Peak."

Alistair blinked - the name meant nothing to him. At his side Flora's jaw dropped, her eyes widening in disbelief. Finian had spent a half-candle deciphering this name with her at South Reach, his finger patiently tracing out the letters scored into the book's leather binding.

"You wrote _Exotic Fish of Thedas," _she breathed, awestruck.

"Aye, milady."

"My favourite book in the world. You _fished up all those amazing fish."_

The man nodded, eyeing her warily.

"Aye, that I did, ma'am. Every one, by my own net and pole."

"Oh," she continued, utterly enraptured. "That's _amazing. _I'm so jealous."

Wulfric let out a little grunt, shifting in his seat and shooting a surreptitious glance at the Cousland heraldry painted on the walls.

"How did you manage to catch the _Rivaini_ _Night Eel?" _Flora whispered, with eyes like saucers. "It only comes out of the nest twice a year."

"All a matter of usin' a big-enough hook," replied the fisherman, with the dourness typical of his profession. "And waitin' for a sou'westerly current."

Fascinated, Flora drifted forwards as though in a waking dream; taking a seat at the table and staring at the man as though he were the Blessed Andraste Herself returned to the mortal world.

"But what kind of _bait _did you use?"

Within moments, fisherman and future queen were immersed deep in a conversation that seemed utterly nonsensical to the others present in the chamber. Alistair had no idea what his best friend was babbling excitedly about – it was an incomprehensible tangle of fishing linguistics, interspersed with peculiar breed names he _just _about recognised from reading through _Exotic Fish _with her. Still, he was delighted to see his lover looking so animated, simultaneously grateful to Finian for organising such a deeply meaningful gift.

Fergus apparently had similar thoughts, the teyrn draping an arm about his younger brother's shoulders as he came to stand alongside them.

"How in Andraste's flaming smalls did you manage to track him down, Finn?"

Finian grinned, at once both proud and smug.

"He was a bugger to find," the new arl of Amaranthine admitted, cheerfully. "Had to use all my Orlesian contacts. I owe quite a few people favours now. But, it's _worth _it. Look at her sweet little face!"

Flora was leaning forwards, utterly enthralled, her chin resting in her hands and her pale eyes bright with fascination.

For the next two hours, fisherman and daughter of Herring were consumed by frenzied conversation. Unable to contribute, king and Cousland brothers ended up playing several quiet rounds of Wicked Grace in the corner of the chamber; Finian winning three times and the others a round apiece.

Finally, Wulfric Letholdus ended up rather awkwardly presenting Flora with a sheaf of parchment bound together with twine; coughing and raising his eyes to the ceiling. She used her finger to trace the words etched into the leather, reading them painstakingly out loud.

"'_Even… More… Ex- Exotic Fish of Thedas.' _Oh! Oooooh!"

"It's the sequel," muttered Wulfric, with the awkward demeanour of a man who spent more time alone in the wilds with a fishing rod than he did in the company of others. "Only a first draft, mind."

Flora clutched the book to her chest; so overwhelmed that she felt a choked sob surging up from her belly. Not bothering to restrain herself – after all, she was not in _public _– she let the tears of gratitude roll freely down her cheeks.

Wulfric, even less used to dealing with tears than he was women in general, shot a frantic glance towards the others. Alistair, whose head had shot around at the first sniffle, immediately rose to his feet; the cards falling from his lap to the flagstones.

"Three Serpents and a Rose," observed Finian quietly, smug in the knowledge that he would have won this round too.

Alistair came to stand behind Flora's chair, one hand settling gently on top of her head. Flora wiped roughly at her eyes, clutching the book to her chest as though it were a precious baby.

"I owe you more than I can say," she whispered tremulously, forcing some evenness into her reply. "_Exotic Fish of Thedas_ gave me so much happiness during the Blight. I can't thank you enough."

"Well, we all owe you our lives," muttered Wulfric, the words accompanied by a little grunt._ "Dragon-slayer."_

Once Wulfric had taken his leave, Finian shot a self-satisfied grin across the room towards his little sister, who was still sitting – slightly dazed - at the table.

"Told you my gift was worth waiting for, Flossie," he declared, with equal parts smugness and pride.

Flora placed the _Exotic Fish _sequel atop the gleaming beech surface; propelling herself and her belly upright with a spread palm. Crossing the room in a handful of strides, she embraced her brother with a ferocity that knocked the air from his lungs. Finian laughed as he held her against him, hand patting her shoulder blades through the lambs' wool tunic.

"I take it you liked your present then, sweet pea?"

"I loved it!"

"Does it make up for me chasing you around Redcliffe Castle with some Templars when we first met?"

"YES!"

* * *

A short while later - much to Alistair and Flora's dismay - they were forced to part. Old Fereldan tradition dictated that the bride be kept in a separate room from her future husband on the night preceding the wedding. Eamon had sent Leliana as enforcer; knowing that both Alistair and Flora would do as the sweetly smiling, steely-eyed bard requested.

With Flora's nightgown over her arm, the lay sister manifested in the corridor outside the Cousland quarters, intercepting both former Wardens as they left. Alistair's face had been almost comical in its disappointment as he learnt that he was to be separated from his best friend _until midday the next day – _indeed, the next time he would set eyes on her would be in the Grand Chantry itself.

Flora, equally glum at the prospect of their parting, reached out her arms towards him; _Mairyn's Star _glintingin the torchlight.

"I'll have the horses ready at eleven bells tomorrow morning," Fergus murmured to Leliana, as the lay sister gave a small nod of confirmation. "The streets will be cordoned off to carts and wagons, and guards will line the route, but I suspect it'll still take longer than normal to reach the Square."

"In Orlais, it's fashionable for a bride to be late to her own wedding," Leliana replied, with a little snort reminiscent of Val Royeaux. "Oh, for the love of Andraste, you two are being parted for a _single night, _not a year! Florence, do try and leave Alistair _some_ face left, won't you?"

A flushed Flora detached herself with extreme reluctance. Alistair appeared half tempted to take his mistress by the hand and lead her back into their own bedchamber, though he was rapidly dissuaded by a deadly glare from Leliana.

"I'll see you tomorrow, baby," the king called after Flora as she was steered down the corridor by the determined bard. "I'll be the one standing at the front of the Chantry in a gold hat."

Leliana, with the acumen of one who knew the layout of the palace intimately, led the way from the Royal quarters and into the eastern wing of the castle. They traversed branching corridors and passageways that Flora had not even _seen _before, passing over balconies overlooking mouldering hallways and barely-used reception chambers. Flora was so fascinated by this venture into the decaying depths of the palace that she abandoned her sulk at being parted from Alistair. The bard seemed to be leading her into a far older section of the castle – one in dire need of repairs. The stone walls were crumbling, the flagstones cracked and the tapestries on the wall visibly threadbare. Even the candelabras were cloaked in cobwebs, remnants of candles frozen in waxy drips. The corridor was lit sporadically, one torch lit for every three iron brackets.

"I've never been here before," Flora breathed, almost colliding with Leliana as the bard halted outside a wooden door inscribed with a wolf's snarling maw. "It smells like Herring."

"Damp and mouldering? I agree," murmured Leliana, giving the door an experimental nudge.

In contrast to the dilapidated surroundings, the door swung open easily; as though its hinges had been freshly oiled. Indeed, the small bedchamber that lay within appeared to have been recently renovated – a fresh coat of plaster had been applied to the walls, clean furs spread over the bed and sweet-smelling rushes strewn across the flagstones. A fire had been set in the hearth, crackling contentedly away behind the iron grate.

The neat little bedchamber was in such disparity to the mildewed corridor that Flora stared at it, and then twisted her head to peer up and down the dilapidated passageway.

"In, in," chided Leliana, ushering Flora inside and promptly closing the door. "You're going to let all the heat out."

Flora wandered across the room, her attention caught by the faded tapestry on the wall. It depicted several playful Mabari at play; one gnawing at a bone, the other chasing its tail, and the third barking up at its master. It was faded and frayed, clearly a great number of decades old.

"Whose room was this?" she breathed, touching a finger to the moth-eaten fabric and sneezing at the dust that rose in its wake.

"This was the childhood room of Moira Theirin," Leliana replied softly, heading to the window and pushing back the shutters. A sloping tiled roof ran alongside the wall; running a length of several metres before ending in a sharp drop to the courtyard below. Just beneath the window was a low balcony, barely large enough for two people to stand abreast.

"Moira Theirin?" Flora repeated, trying to recall Alistair's ancestry.

"The _Rebel Queen_ of Ferelden, Florence. Do you remember _nothing _of my history lessons? Although," Leliana relented, seeing Flora yawn. "She wasn't yet the _Rebel Queen _when she lived here. She was a little girl, whose father was desperately clinging to his throne. The Orlesians had already captured the south-west- "

"Boo! Hiss!"

"Indeed, _ma petite. _The Orlesians had taken Redcliffe, and were rapidly encroaching on the Bannorn. King Brandel could not rally the Fereldan people, and so eventually he lost Denerim too. It was his _daughter_ who united the people behind her and took up the rebel cause; in defiance of what seemed an insurmountable force."

Flora blinked, dropping an absentminded hand to her stomach as she felt the baby give an irritable kick.

"I have a feeling I'm staying in this room tonight for a _reason_," she said carefully at last, and Leliana gave a small, patient nod of confirmation.

"_Oui, ma crevette. _It sends out a message to Ferelden, much like the entirety of tomorrow. You understand, yes?"

Flora nodded; she did understand.

_All of Thedas' leaders will be at the coronation tomorrow; either in person or in proxy. They're not just there as guests, they're there to assess Ferelden's post-Blight strength._

_Alistair and I, we both have to appear strong. Like leaders that can rally a nation behind us. If we look strong, Ferelden looks strong._

Leliana smiled, drawing the shutters closed and turning back into the room.

"Anyway! As isolated as this chamber may seem, I assure you that there are servants and stewards lingering nearby if you have any requests. However, I must suggest an _early_ night - it's going to be a _very _exhausting day tomorrow."

Leliana's 'suggestions' were actually none-too-subtly disguised _instructions_. Minutes later, Flora was sitting on the bed in her nightgown, eyes watering as the bard wielded a merciless hairbrush.

"The dressmaker will arrive at eight bells tomorrow. We'll need to be up at dawn to wash and dry this great unruly mass of hair," Leliana murmured, finally satisfied that she had worked out all the tangles. "It'll take three hours to get you ready- "

"_Three hours?!" _bleated Flora, who customarily took three _minutes _to get ready. _"Hours?"_

"_Ssh! Oui. _We'll depart at eleven bells. Does that suit you?"

Flora let out a little grunt of assent, winding several thick ropes of hair into a plump braid over her shoulder.

"Eleven hours," she repeated, fastening the end of the woven hair with a leather tie and lying back against the furs. "Alright."

Leliana leaned across to blow out the candle, settling back into the mass of overstuffed cushions. For several moments, both redheads were silent, thinking on the events of the next day. An owl called from somewhere beyond the closed shutters, the cry echoed by its mate moments later. The bard's sharp ears detected the sound of guardsmen's boots against the flagstones; a pair of soldiers stationing themselves at either side of the door. Clearly, Alistair was willing to take no chances with his mistress' safety on this final night they were to spend apart.

Flora felt the baby shift inside her belly and placed a warning hand over the fleshy curve, inwardly instructing the little creature not to get too _acrobatic_ just as she was settling down.

_Go back to sleep, _Flora thought to herself, sternly. _We both have a long day tomorrow._

"_Bonne nuit, ma crevette." _Leliana's voice drifted from the shadows; the outline of her face just visible against the cushions.

"Night, Leliana," Flora replied, reaching out to pat the bard gently on her freshly moisturised cheek. "Don't let the weever fish bite."

Flora awoke several hours later to the sound of a faint tapping. Confused – and also a little terrified that it might be the headless ghost of the Rebel Queen come back to revisit her old bedroom - Flora opened an eye and squinted through the gloom.

The hearth burned low in the grate, casting a muted ochre glow across the small bedchamber. Leliana was sound asleep beside her, a pink silk Orlesian mask covering the upper half of her face. The chamber itself seemed deserted, and then the faint tapping came again and Flora jumped a little amidst the blankets.

A moment later, she realised that the sound was coming through the closed shutters; faint and insistent.

"_Flo!"_

Flora put down her impromptu weapon - _Even More Exotic Fish Of Thedas - _and pushed back the furs, swinging herself and her belly out of bed. Creeping barefoot across the flagstones, she reached up to unfasten the shutters, pulling them inwards to reveal a triumphant Alistair perched on the balcony below. He was still fully dressed and grinning triumphantly; untidy hair silvered by an indulgent, low-hanging moon.

"_Finally!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Haha it was funny to write Flo proper fangirling over the author of Exotic Fish of Thedas, lol. Poor old Alistair, doomed to read about fish with his wife for all eternity!
> 
> I'm just making up Fereldan traditions left right and centre here – like the future queen spending the night in the childhood bedchamber of the Rebel Queen. But it seems like it makes sense to me, lol, so hopefully no one will be too offended at my headcanon.


	51. A Restless Night

Flora blinked down at Alistair as he balanced precariously on the ledge below, utterly astonished. Somewhere in the night-shrouded courtyard, the bell rang for the tenth hour; the sound echoing between the crumbling stone walls.

"You're turning into Zevran," she breathed after a moment, leaning out of the window to stare down at him. "What are you _doing?"_

"I wanted to come and see my beautiful bride," Alistair replied, taking hold of the balcony edge and using strong thighs to propel himself upwards. "Guillaume told me where you were staying. I've never been in this bit of the palace before!"

"Be careful," Flora said in alarm, aware that her long-limbed, broad-shouldered companion was not the most graceful being in Thedas. "Don't slip."

"I'm not going to _slip – _oh, shit – well, I'm _probably_ not going to slip."

Now successfully perched on the balcony, Alistair grinned winningly up at her; the torch-lit exterior of the Royal Palace serving as a suitably dramatic backdrop.

"My love! No _tradition_ can stop me from seeing you. If they catch us, I'll just plead ignorance due to my upbringing in Arl Eamon's stables."

"I thought you were the ghost of the Rebel Queen," Flora replied, leaning further out of the window as he reached up; one large, sword-calloused hand cupping the side of her cheek. "I was about to hit you with _Even More Fish."_

"Ah, _Granny Moira," _the king murmured distractedly, his thumb now tracing the planes and angles of her solemn face. "Sorry if I scared you, baby. I just wanted to come and get my goodnight kiss. Or… I won't sleep well, and then I'll forget when to raise the sword during the coronation ceremony tomorrow, and Leliana might actually _kill me_."

Flora smiled down at him, strands of hair pulling loose from her braid and falling down beside her ears. Alistair gazed back up at her, the green flecks in his hazel irises standing out stark in the moonlight.

"By the Maker, you're so beautiful," he said unsteadily a moment later, shaking his head slowly. "You take my breath away, darling."

Immediately afterwards, his eyes widened in alarm as Flora hoisted the nightgown up around her thighs and swung her leg over the windowsill; his arms shooting upwards to steady her as she clambered out onto the balcony. This accomplished, she beamed in triumph, hair askew and nightgown half slipping from her shoulder.

"Ha! Haha."

A slightly traumatised Alistair drew her into his arms, making sure that she was safely positioned on the interior of the balcony. The beam slid away as Flora turned her face up to him; the metallic mote on her iris like a stray golden fleck from a painter's brush.

After a moment, the king's stare dropped from Flora's eyes to her full Cousland mouth, fascinated by the natural sulkiness found in its solemn curve. Wanting suddenly to see those lips part and shape his name, he bowed his head and pressed his mouth against hers. While his tongue worked busily alongside her own, one hand was already reaching to draw her nightgown up around her hips. Alistair's mouth made its way lower to caress her throat, lips suckling a series of gentle kisses into the creamy skin. Flora's thighs wrapped readily around his waist as he braced her against the wall, his own breeches partway down his thighs and buttocks exposed. She pressed her face into his shoulder, wide-eyed, not quite able to muffle her little noises of pleasure.

The moon gazed benevolently down from above; a pallid wash of nocturnal light illuminating both lofty balcony and the figures moving together upon it. As the king's thumb worked in conjunction with slow rolls of his pelvis, he felt his lover tense, a half-strangled plea escaping her lips.

"Say my name, baby," he instructed thickly with the Theirin dominance of his father, increasing the speed of his thumb.

Sure enough, moments later his name escaped Flora's throat in a desperate half-moan, her thighs clamping vice-like around his waist. Alistair held her through the shuddering climax, pressing tender kisses to her bared breasts.

As soon as the post-coital haze cleared from her mind, Flora blinked up at him in slight perplexion.

"You.. you didn't…?"

"No, sweetheart."

She looked about the cramped balcony, wondering if there was space for her to sink to her knees. Reading her intentions clear on her face, Alistair almost gave into temptation. One hand hovered above Flora's shoulder, then drew back; the king forcing himself to resist.

"I'm going to save myself for the wedding night," he said, and then stifled a laugh, realising that he sounded like some blushing maid. "Maker knows I'll need all the help I can get, in the company of a wizened old crone from the Chantry and some fellow from the Landsmeet whom I'll never be able to look in the eye again."

Flora was unable to stop herself from cackling as he lowered her gently to the tiles. Alistair shot his best friend a faintly malevolent look, and then broke into a rueful laugh.

"I suppose we'll look back at this in years to come and laugh," he murmured, bowing to press a kiss against her forehead. "I'd better leave you to get your rest now, darling. It's going to be a long one tomorrow."

Alistair kissed her on the end of the nose and then once more on the mouth, fingers reluctant to release the folds of her nightgown. Only when Flora appeared ready to clamber back through the window unaided did he stop his affections; lifting her gently up onto the sill in strong arms.

"There we go," he murmured, manoeuvring each of Flora's feet back over the stone ledge. "Back to bed, and the bard will be none the wiser. See you at the altar, baby."

With a final kiss on the lips, the king was navigating his way across the rooftop, one hand on the wall to steady himself. His mistress, her face wistful, watched Alistair's progress until he disappeared into the shadows; presumably ducking inside another opened window.

Flora drew the shutters quietly behind her, and then turned back into the shadowed chamber that had once belonged to Ferelden's most revered queen. Leliana was still motionless in bed, facing the door with the blankets pulled up to her chin.

Creeping across the tiles, Flora slid back into bed alongside her; letting out a little grunt as the baby swung a foot into her belly.

_Don't you start, _she thought sternly to her abdomen, tugging her nightgown back down over her knees. The next moment, she almost fell out of bed in terror as Leliana rolled over; raising her eye-mask to unleash a glower of epic proportion.

"_Ma petite, _the purpose of you sleeping in this chamber was to keep Alistair from seeing his bride until you come face to face in the Grand Chantry tomorrow. A purpose defeated if you allow him to illicitly _grope _you on balconies. You wanton little minx!"

"Yes… _grope… _that's all," said Flora hastily, worried that Leliana might have a minor heart attack if she discovered the full truth. "Sorry. It's the Herring girl in me. _Shameless."_

The bard let out a typically Orlesian sigh, plumping up the cushions before sinking back into them and replacing the eye mask. Flora eyed Leliana for a moment, then leaned over on her elbow and kissed her on the cheek.

"Lovely Leliana," she whispered, wistfully. "You're so clever. I wish we could keep you here _forever_ with us. But I know you're going to be in demand all over Thedas."

"_Ah, ma crevette!" _The bard let out a soft laugh, her voice distant. "You are too kind. Do you really think that the Maker has some plan in store for me?"

"Definitely," Flora replied, immediately and without a shred of doubt. "There's lots of great things coming up in your future."

"Do you really believe so, _ma petite?"_

"Yes, of course!"

Leliana smiled at the young Cousland through the shadows, their faces resting a short distance apart on the embroidered cushions.

"I hope you're right, _fleur_. I am not yet ready to retire from His service."

A murmured prayer later and the bard was soon fast asleep, the eye mask firmly back over the upper half of her face. Flora rolled over, unable to get comfortable; the baby was digging itself into the base of her spine. Wishing that Alistair was there – his muscled chest was more comfortable to sprawl against than any mattress – she spent the next half-candle gazing gormlessly into the flickering hearth. A pair of servants entered a short time later, creeping across the flagstones with the breath suspended in their throats in an effort to be silent. They restocked the fire with new logs, sneaking out with equal care.

As the first layer of these fresh logs burned away, sleep continued to elude Flora. She turned impatiently from one side to another, until the furs tangled between her legs and she shoved them to the foot of the bed.

Finally, Flora clambered to her feet and went to the dresser, in the off-chance it would have some meagre contents. Sure enough, it contained a thick woollen dressing robe in an alarming shade of mustard. Pushing her arms through the sleeves, Flora shuffled across the flagstones and nudged the door open, inhaling the scent of mildew from the corridor. Immediately, the two guards posted at the entrance shifted their pikes from hand to hand to acknowledge her presence.

"Lady Florence," offered a Highever retainer, his loyalty recognisable from the navy livery he wore. "Is all well?"

"I'm fine," she replied, edging her way between them with a hand on her stomach. "I need to wait for baby to sleep before I can sleep."

Without any clear idea where she was going, Flora wandered barefoot down the corridor. Although Leliana had complained vociferously about the dampness, Flora had found it oddly comforting – almost reminiscent of Herring. The cold flagstones beneath her feet reminded her of the craggy rock protrusion that her home village was built upon. In the deceptive darkness, with the occasional call of a seagull drifting in through the arrow-slit windows; she could nearly imagine herself back home.

_Except the air is too still for it to be the north coast, _she thought idly to herself, continuing to wander without purpose. _The air is placid and peaceful here, it drifts about aimlessly. On the north coast, it rages – whips itself into a frenzy and harasses the waves, pulls loose fishing nets and blows banks of sand up against the buildings._

By now Flora had emerged into a part of the palace that she recognised – the lofty minstrel's gallery that overlooked the great hall. Everything had been set up in preparation for tomorrow's wedding feast – empty plates laid with tankards nearby, unlit candelabras set at regular intervals. The tables were decorated with elaborate strands of woven laurel and crimson ribbons; a stage for additional musicians had been set up at one end of the hall. At the far table – which was raised on a low stone platform – two large wooden thrones stood side by side. They were decorated with laurel and ivy, crimson skeins of ribbon wound about their ornately carved arms.

After gazing down at the empty chairs in slight awe – there must have been at least three hundred placed there in preparation – Flora left the minstrel's gallery. She traversed a long passage lined with sculptures of figures from Andrastrian legend. Andraste stood at their head, her granite eyes staring sightless and accusatory across at Maferath, enclosed in an opposite alcove. Flora felt a little sorry for the prophetess, forced to gaze at her treacherous husband for all eternity.

The corridor branched into a torch-lit passageway that ran from east to west. Flora glanced from one side to the other; her eyes settling on a pair of guards clad in forest green livery stationed outside a nearby doorway. As she approached, the familiar portcullis emblem of South Reach came into view. Leonas did not usually stay within the palace, and Flora assumed that he must have relocated due to the coronation.

"Evenin', Lady Cousland," offered one of the guards, whom she remembered from Leonas' seat. He had often been posted outside the Wardens' chamber – and had thus been one of the first to suspect that the young redheaded Warden might be with child; having brought her water on more than one occasion after she had been sick.

"Hullo, Iain," replied Flora, summoning his name from the depths of her memory as she saw candlelight gleaming beneath the arl's door. "Is Arl Leonas still awake?"

The guard nodded, stepping forward to open the door as she advanced. The quarters lying beyond were plain and unremarkable, with cream-plastered walls and dark wooden beams running the length of the ceiling. A four poster bed stood in one corner, the blankets and furs untouched.

In the opposite corner, Leonas Bryland was sitting at a desk; pouring over a sheaf of papers by the light of several candles and the smouldering hearth. He was fully dressed, a quill clutched awkwardly in his maimed hand and a frown of concentration embedded across his forehead. A half-drunk bottle of ale rested at the corner of the desk, precariously close to the edge.

As Flora wandered in, the arl glanced up; one eyebrow rising at the lurid mustard wool of her dressing-gown.

"Something wrong?" he enquired with the usual rough brusqueness, making as though to stand.

"No, I'm fine," Flora replied vaguely, shuffling across to the desk and nudging the bottle away from the edge. "What are you doing?"

Leonas glanced down at the papers spread across the desk, each sheet covered with tightly-packed words and figures.

"Correspondence with the South Reach restoration committee," he replied, the corner of his mouth curling upwards wryly. "Doing some initial valuation. Everything costs twice as much as it did before the damned Blight."

Flora nodded, shifting from foot to foot. Leonas glanced at his old friend's daughter for a moment but did not raise any query; knowing that she would speak when ready.

"Can I help you?" she asked instead, eyeing the papers.

Leonas gave a small grunt of affirmation, handing her several sheets of parchment and an ink-pen.

"You can read figures well enough, eh?" he sought to confirm, fully aware of Flora's limited literacy. "Numbers?"

"Mm."

"Well, whenever you see any numbers – underline them."

Flora nodded, taking the papers and pen over to a nearby armchair. Tucking her feet beneath her, she rested the papers on top of her stomach and began to pour through them.

They continued in such manner without talking for a half-candle, Leonas scribing lines of text in his neat, efficient hand while Flora dutifully underlined every instance of sum and cost. The hearth hissed and spat gently in its stone confines; from somewhere outside the tower, a seagull issued a harsh summons to its mate.

Eventually, Leonas put down his quill and poured himself an ale from the precarious bottle. Without speaking, he retrieved a second tankard and poured a drink for Flora; knowing that she found the taste unpleasant, he added a large dollop of water from a nearby jug.

"Thank you," she mumbled, putting down the ink-pen and taking the tankard.

The general let out a grunt of acknowledgment. Flora took several large and unladylike gulps, then eyed the arl over the tankard's metal rim.

"Arl Leonas?"

"'_Lady Florence,'"_ he replied with equal solemnity, putting down his tankard and turning in the chair to face her.

"What do you think… my parents would have thought about all this? Me marrying Alistair?"

_Ah, _thought Leonas to himself, _here's the reason._

"Well, Bryce always planned for you to marry into the Theirins," he replied measuredly, dark Bryland eyes meeting hers without wavering. "So I'd imagine he'd be pleased, though he was never one for fuss and bother."

"He wasn't?" Flora perked up a little.

Leonas snorted, shaking his head. "He had simple tastes. He might've lived in a castle, lass, but he was still a northerner."

"By that measure, so is Finian," Flora countered, and the arl gave a snort of acknowledgement; aware of the Orlesian-educated Cousland's love of ornamentation.

"Aye, you're right."

"What about my mother?"

"I think she'd be happy that you were marrying for love, rather than for political gain," Leonas said, coughing to hide the uncharacteristic sentimentality of his words. "She chose freely to marry Bryce, and I don't think the betrothal of you and Cailen as children sat well with her."

Flora rolled her eyes, the concept of binding one infant to another for political purpose utterly foreign to her.

"I love Alistair more than anything," she said gravely, as Leonas tried not to laugh at this statement of the obvious. "I'm doing all this for him. This big, fancy… _show. _Me being queen will make him a stronger king, won't it?"

Leonas grunted once more in confirmation, eyeing Flora over the rim of his tankard. She was sitting cross-legged on the chair, stomach resting neatly within the cradle of her thighs, her face no less solemn in profile. The grubbiness of the bare feet, the ugly mustard dressing robe and the general dishevelment of her hair could not disguise the keen beauty of her classically _Fereldan_ features.

"Aye," he replied, bluntly. "It'll strengthen his throne. Marrying a Cousland will win the north to his cause, and they've always been the most troublesome region- "

"Ha! Haha."

" – and you're the ender of the Fifth Blight, slayer of the Archdemon_."_

The arl smiled wryly, replacing the tankard on the tray.

"Young, bonny, and the first royal baby for two decades lies snug in your belly. You're a valuable asset, Florence."

Flora wrinkled her nose; she did not like this attempt to quantify her worth. Still, Leonas' words rang true enough, and she bit thoughtfully at the wooden end of the ink-pen.

There was silence for a moment, the fire hissing as it belched gouts of sparks up the chimney breast. Outside, quiet voices murmured to one another as the guard changed watch.

"Are you nervous about tomorrow?" Leonas asked eventually, screwing the lid back onto the pot of Antivan ink. "Half of Thedas is going to be in that Chantry."

Flora tilted her face towards him, pale eyes aloof and ambiguous as sea-water.

"No," she replied, honestly. "I'm not nervous."

_There are places I've walked and things I've done that are far more intimidating._

Leonas let out a hoarse laugh, sliding the ink-pot across the wooden surface of the desk until it rested beside its counterparts.

"Well, you let me know if there's anything I can do to make tomorrow easier," he said after a moment, the humour sliding abruptly from his face. "I mean it, Florence. You _tell _me, and I'll deal with it."

"Thank you."

"Bryce would be outraged if he thought that his daughter was anything _less _than perfectly happy on her wedding day. Since he isn't here, I feel an obligation to… well_."_

Flora glanced sideways at the arl as he coughed, uncomfortable but genuine in his offer. Privately, she wasn't sure of the accuracy of his words – her father, far from being concerned for his daughter's wellbeing, had sent her away to a remote village and severed all association – but she appreciated Leonas' offer nonetheless.

"Thank you," she repeated solemnly, then smiled at him. "I'm very grateful for everything you've done. You've always looked out for me, ever since South Reach."

Leonas let out a little embarrassed grunt. Flora heaved herself to her feet, ducking down to kiss him on the cheek on her way to the door.

"See you in the morning, Arl Leonas."

"Goodnight, pet."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: OK I thought it was about time for the sequel to have an interestingly-located smut scene, since the Lion and the Light saw them getting down in stables, up trees, on demonic altars in abandoned mage towers… So I thought I would include a brief acrobatic balcony shag before the wedding. Acrobatic shag – ACROSHAG – I'll show myself out, lol. Actually, Acroshag would be an amazing chapter title!
> 
> Ten points for anyone who can work out the reference in the second part of this chapter – Flora underlining stuff on important documents for Arl Leonas, her noble father-figure. It's a nod to one of my favourite classics 90s films, starring Alicia Silverstone (literally no one will get this. And it's not Batman ahahaha)


	52. The Wedding Day Dawns

The morning of the great _wedding-coronation_ dawned bright and cloudless, the sun rising with a benevolent beam over the Amaranthine Ocean. It was accompanied by an easterly breeze that carried the scent of seawater throughout the labyrinthine thoroughfares of the city; overhead, the seagulls wheeled and cried as though detecting the latent excitement below.

Flora awoke to the sound of bells, their muffled, tinny resonance penetrating her dreamless slumber. She turned her head reflexively even as she woke, tangled in the blankets and furs.

Before Flora had even opened her eyes fully, a bright-voiced figure had descended to the bed; kissing her on both cheeks and exclaiming.

"_Congratulations, ma cherie!"_

Flora squinted, rather blearily, at the bard; rubbing at her eyes and yawning.

"Eeehhh- "

"It's your _wedding day!"_

"Hnghh."

Flora let out a distinctly Herring-inflected grunt, peering around at the unfamiliar chamber before recalling that they had stayed the night in the Rebel Queen's childhood chamber. Leliana, whose face was plastered with some unguent cream, was beaming excitedly – and a fraction _maniacally_ \- down at her.

Sensing that it's mother was awake, the baby gave a little experimental nudge. Flora patted her stomach absentmindedly, ears pricking at the increasing resonant clamour from outside.

"What's that noise?"

"The Chantry bells, _ma petite. _They ring from the towers of every chapel in the city. Just wait until the Grand Chantry joins- "

Even as the bard spoke, the nine hanging bells of Ferelden's largest Chantry chimed in. Even at a mile's distance, their sonorous metallic pealing echoed about the palace towers; demanding the attention of those within.

Awestruck, Flora wandered to the window and stood on her toes, craning her neck to peer down at the city below – this chamber did not have such a lofty view as did the Royal quarters. The joyous ringing of the bells seemed to rise above the slate rooftops, resonating above the city like a miasma of sound.

"It's not Sunday," she observed, brow furrowing. "Why are they all _going off?"_

"Because it's the coronation," replied Leliana, who had just finished issuing a series of instructions to a hovering servant. "And your _wedding day. _They're ringing for you and Alistair, _ma petite."_

Flora thought of her best friend and former brother-warden, waking up alone in a far grander bedchamber. He too would be able to hear the insistent clamour of the bells – she wondered if he was feeling nervous.

_I don't think he's at all anxious about the coronation, actually. I think he's worried about tonight._

She leaned forward, resting her forehead against the cool, leaded glass. Oddly enough, Flora's own heart was racing – fluttering against her chest like the caged wren she would have to wield at the altar in mere hours. This was accompanied by a peculiar curdling in the base of her belly that felt wholly unlike the nausea caused by the baby.

_I can't have had a nightmare. I don't dream anymore. Why am I feeling like this?_

Flora took a deep, steadying gulp of cool air, watching the moisture from her own exhalations slowly cloud the glass before her face.

_Am I nervous?_

There came a soft throb of pain from her hand; when Flora glanced down at her palm, she noticed a semi-circle of pink indentations dug into the delicate skin. These must have been caused by the pressure of her own bitten nails, driven into her palm by curled, overly tense fingers.

_I must be nervous. I wish Alistair was here._

"Right!"

Leliana advanced across the chamber with the feverish efficiency of a commander issuing orders to his cornered troops.

"The bath is being brought up – hopefully it's not _cold _by the time it makes it to this Maker-forsaken corner of the palace – and we have two candles to get you washed and that rampant mass of _hair _dried. The dressmaker is arriving at nine bells. We need to be ready to leave an hour before midday. We _must _adhere to this schedule, Florence, or _all is lost!"_

Flora nodded, boggling at the meticulous timings. There came a knock at the door, and the bard's head flicked around quick as a whip.

"Ah, that'll be the bath!"

Instead, much to Flora's delight, Zevran and Wynne were waiting in the mildewed corridor. The senior enchanter was clad in a rich crimson robe edged with bronze thread, her hair wound into an elaborate braid around her head, whereas the elf had managed to find a set of dark, high-necked leathers that almost appeared _formal - _at a distance. Flora beamed, ridiculously happy to see them both; the peculiar nerves in her belly subsiding.

In place of a greeting, the elf strode straight across the chamber. Without hesitation, he clasped Flora's face in-between his elegant, tan fingers and kissed her squarely on the mouth; hard and purposeful.

"There! Your last as an unmarried woman," he declared gleefully, stepping back as an astonished Flora blinked. "It is _Antivan tradition _that a bride be kissed by a man who is not her husband on the morning of her marriage."

"Oh! _Really?"_ she replied, fascinated. "I've not heard of that."

"Antivan tradition, or _lecherous elf _tradition?" muttered Leliana, leaning out into the corridor in a vain effort to spot the approaching bath. "I think the latter!"

Zevran let out a roguish cackle, darting a quick wink in Flora's direction. She smiled back at him, before turning to Wynne. To her surprise, the strait-laced senior mage appeared distinctly damp around the eyes, the corners of her lined mouth puckering.

"Wynne," Flora breathed, reaching out to clasp her companion's hand. "Wynne, I- "

"Don't _start_, Flora," retorted Wynne sternly, unable to disguise the distinct tremor in her voice. "I'll prove myself a foolish old woman by shedding an _abundance_ of tears today; I do not wish to start prematurely."

Fortunately, the bathwater arrived before the senior enchanter could succumb further to her emotions. The bathtub was hauled into the centre of the chamber, water spilling over the flagstones as the great copper receptacle was lowered before the hearth. A gaggle of excitable maidservants scuttled about the room; one adding more logs to the fire, another bringing forth a selection of scented soaps on a silver tray. A third presented a delighted Flora with a small bowl filled with cubes of raw turnip and carrot – covered with a fine sprinkling of earth – while a fourth waited for any further instructions.

Leliana dismissed the maids with polite tenseness; neither requiring nor desiring assistance.

"_Vêtements!" _she commanded, keeping one ear out for the bell that marked the morning change of watch.

"Eh?" mumbled Flora - whom the command had been aimed at – through a mouth of raw turnip.

"Your _clothing! _Take it all off."

Flora obediently pulled loose the strings of her nightgown, shaking her shoulders to let the voluminous material pool around her feet. Leliana gestured her towards the bathtub, rummaging through the tray of scented perfumes with a clatter of glass.

"It _is_ a large babe for only two-thirds grown," Wynne commented with a faint air of experience as she took a seat at the window; eyeing the swollen mound rising from Flora's belly. "Think it's a boy?"

"Possibly," agreed Leliana, placing several vials to one side. "Though according to the midwife, Florence herself was an overlarge babe. It could be a girl."

"Your body is as beautiful as I remember from the Temple of Sacred Ashes," Zevran commented kindly from the bed, in an effort to distract Flora from the horrors of birthing an _overly large babe_. "Even _more _so. My ripening little peach."

Flora smiled at him gratefully, taking Leliana's steadying hand as she clambered into the bathtub. The water was an inoffensive temperature – no servant was going to risk either freezing or scalding their future queen – and she let her head tip back to soak her hair. It floated up about her shoulders, like thick clumps of dark red seaweed.

The bells kept ringing in the distance, their anticipatory pealing echoing even up as high as the Rebel Queen's chamber. Leliana, aware of Flora's distaste for overly girlish scents, spurned the fanciful floral concoctions that she personally adored, using instead perfumed oils of rosemary and hazel.

"Your fingernails are filthy," Leliana murmured with gritted teeth, scrubbing them furiously against a horsehair brush. "What have you been _doing_, digging up handfuls of earth?"

_YES, _Flora thought defiantly to herself; unable to explain the strange urges that occasionally drove her to eat raw earth and gnaw on wooden spoons. Instead she smiled up at Leliana, peeling a wet rope of crimson away from her cheek.

"Thank you."

The bard blew her a kiss in response, working the oil methodically through to the end of each strand of hair. Flora settled back against the copper rim of the tub, eyeing the glistening milky orb of _Mairyn's Star _as it sat plump on her fourth finger.

"This ring would make excellent bait," she commented idly after a moment. "I bet some really _interesting _fish would be attracted to this if I attached it to the end of a line."

Wynne glanced across at Zevran, who gave a little helpless shrug; both hoping very much that Flora was joking.

After Flora was done soaking herself, she was given strict instructions to kneel before the hearth and direct her hair towards the heat of the flames, while Leliana took her place in the bathtub. Finian, who arrived clad in the full velvet-edged regalia of an arl, was promptly assigned the task of soaking up as much moisture as possible from the damp mass of tangled red.

"Don't you dare let that blanket fall, Floss," the young arl instructed sternly as he knelt on the flagstones, rubbing clumps of his sister's wet hair between two linen cloths.

Flora clutched the embroidered wool about her shoulders, letting the swell of her stomach rest on her thighs as she bowed her head. The baby gave a vigorous little nudge against one kidney, and she patted it gently through the skin.

"You're getting made _not-a-bastard _today," she informed it solemnly, knowing that it's ears were formed enough to hear. "So there's no need to kick me."

The scent of violets soon billowed throughout the room as Leliana liberally applied the perfumes that Flora had spurned. The bard hummed a soft melody under her breath; such was the beauty of her voice that the others paused in their conversations to listen.

A short while later, Leliana finished in the bathtub with a soapy flourish, water streaming in rivulets down her magnificently toned and athletic body as she stood.

"_Hair?" _she snapped imperiously towards Finian, who held up a half-dried strand of oxblood. "No, that's not yet dry enough. Keep going!"

"Maker's Breath," the young Cousland murmured under his breath as the bard strode, dripping, across the flagstones to retrieve her dressing robe. "Our Chantry sister is filled with _urgency_ this morning."

"We have a strict schedule," offered Flora helpfully from somewhere beneath the mass of hair. "We have to stick to it, or _'all is lost'."_

"_How_ much will be lost, flower?" asked Finian innocently, shooting Zevran a sly glance.

"All!"

"Some?"

"No! _All!"_

* * *

As the morning watch changed, the excited rhythms of the Royal Palace increased in intensity, each occupant counting down the hours until the coronation began. Although the ceremony itself was taking place in the Grand Chantry, the attendants would be returning to the palace for feasting and festivities that would last nearly eight hours. It would be the most monumental occasion since the coronation of Cailan five years prior; and, especially in the wake of the Fifth Blight, everybody was looking forward to the celebrations. The coronation – and the wedding – were seen as yet another portent of hope for Ferelden's future; tangible as the lady Cousland's swollen belly.

Up in the Royal Chamber, Alistair paced back and forth across the length of the room in a frenzy of nervous excitement. Teagan, Eamon and Fergus attempted in turns to calm him down; while a grinning Oghren was determined to insert as many lewd _wedding night _puns as possible into every comment. A pair of smirking manservants had manoeuvred a wood-framed silken privacy screen into the room without comment; resting it discretely against the wall in preparation for later.

Alistair, who was clad in the traditional tan leather and pale fur garb of a Fereldan king, had his head bare in preparation for the ceremonial crown. He paused before the mirror, running a finger over the short, neatly trimmed facial hair over his jaw, before turning to face Teagan in mild agitation.

"How is she even _getting_ to the Grand Chantry? She's not riding on horseback alone, is she?"

"I'll have her on my saddle," Fergus replied, in a tone caught halfway between reassurance and amusement. Like the other nobles of Ferelden, the young teyrn was clad in the formal livery of his family seat; the distinctive olive and navy colours of Highever reflected in the expensive cloth of his tunic.

"And with a proper escort? The people will all be on the streets – they've been given a holiday – I don't want them rushing towards your horse."

"_Maker's Breath, _Alistair!_"_ Fergus retorted, a rueful smile curling the corner of his full Cousland mouth. "I'll not let a hair on my little sister's head be harmed."

Alistair grimaced, not entirely reassured. Reaching for a half-drunk and lukewarm tankard of ale, he swallowed it in three gulps before turning to Eamon. The Chancellor made a final few notes on a long skein of parchment before handing the letter off to a scribe.

"Once you're both inside the Chantry, the guards will allow the crowds into the Square; where they'll wait for your first public appearance as man and wife."

Eamon's eyebrows shot into his greying hairline as Alistair gave a slightly damp sniff in response, his hazel eyes gleaming with emotional anticipation.

"Come on, lad," the arl said, not unkindly. "Keep it together."

"I wish I could see Flo now," said Alistair in defiant response, turning his head longingly towards the tower where the Rebel Queen's childhood bedchamber lay. "I can't wait until midday. I might go and say _good morning. _See if the baby let her get any sleep."

"Best of luck getting past the lay-sister Leliana," Teagan murmured from where he was leaning against the window. "You know how much of a _devotee _she is to tradition. I believe the senior enchanter Wynne is also present in Flora's bedchamber."

A small muscle at the corner of Alistair's eye twitched, and he visibly deflated.

"Well, I'm not getting past those two," he admitted, resigned. "They're more effective than guard-Mabari. Speaking of Mabari, Ferg, how far in pup is Saela?"

"She'll be birthing them before your progress, by my estimates," replied Fergus, more than happy to distract Alistair from his own eager anticipation. "I'll train the strongest pair in the litter myself; I've got a knack for it. I… I trained Jethro."

The teyrn was silent for a moment, recalling the brave hound that had fallen in defence of Finian during the final battle.

"Thank you," replied Alistair, earnestly. "I can't wait to get more dogs around here. This place is _far _too clean; it wants for a nice layer of animal hair over everything."

Meanwhile, up in Moira Theirin's childhood bedchamber, Flora's hair was _finally_ dry; due to a combination of the hearth's radiating warmth, Finian's efforts with a linen cloth – and, finally, some tactful application of Wynne's staff.

During the delay, Leliana had changed into her own outfit – the cream and maroon garb of a lay sister, the heavy weave of the material clinging to her athletic form like poured milk. Despite this necessary adherence to uniform, Leliana had managed to add her own Orlesian touches to the outfit. Beneath the long skirt, she wore a pair of rose-pink, raw silk slippers, and perfume was applied liberally to both wrists and behind her ears.

"How do I look, Wynne?" the bard asked with a coy smile, gazing at her own reflection in the warped surface of the mirror. "Acceptable, I hope."

"You look lovely, my dear," replied the senior enchanter, giving a soft laugh. "The perfect picture of devotion."

Flora was perched on the edge of the bed, a dressing robe clutched loosely around her bare shoulders. She had eaten her way methodically through the bowl of raw turnips, trying not to let the nervous squirming in the base of her stomach alarm her.

_I'm not scared. Why would I be scared? I've been Warden-Commander, I've spoken in front of ten thousand troops._

Zevran was watching her carefully, the elf's keenly-honed perception sensing that something was perhaps _not quite right. _He was almost as skilled as Alistair at picking up on the fine nuances of Flora's expressions; at seeing through the customary solemnity to the latent emotion below. He was just about to lean towards her and whisper a soft query into her ear, when there came a quick rap at the door.

"_The dress!"_ breathed Leliana, checking quickly to see that Flora was decent before scurrying across to the entrance. "Perfectly on time, just as instructed."

The dressmaker entered, with the shadowed eyes and limp hair of one who had been up all night. Leliana immediately swooped forwards to intercept the muslin-wrapped length of material, murmuring effusive thanks. The dressmaker handed over a small leather pouch, and Leliana returned the gesture with a similarly-sized silk purse. When the woman made to refuse – garbing the Hero of Ferelden on her wedding day would bring in business enough – the bard murmured an insistence, pressing the pouch into her hand.

While Finian and Leliana made to unwrap the dress itself, Flora peered out of the window down to the courtyard below. Servants were crowding over the cobblestones in a near constant stream; carrying tables, wine-barrels, standing candelabra, and other items associated with great social gatherings. The baby gave a little nudge inside her stomach and Flora rubbed the heel of her hand absentmindedly over the high, swollen mound.

"Florence, _ma petite," _came Leliana's voice from across the room. "Are you ready?"

Flora nodded, letting the dressing robe drop from around her shoulders. She padded across the flagstones clad only in her smalls; much to Finian's dismay as he clapped his hand over his face a fraction too late.

"I'm now _blind _in my only remaining eye, Floss, thanks a lot!"

Flora let out a little grunt of apology, confusion mounting. She could recall Leliana describing Anora Mac Tir's wedding gown – the bard had not been present, but had come to hear of it through other channels. Anora's gown had been made from sky-blue silk velvet imported from Orlais, each yard of fabric costing hundreds of gold. The queen had worn a gossamer veil which sat, cloud-like, atop a tightly braided intricacy of golden hair.

"But this doesn't even look like a _dress_," she observed, brow furrowing as she gazed at the swathes of leather on the bed. "Where's the head-hole?"

"It's _not _a traditional wedding gown," Leliana confirmed, positioning Flora on the flagstones and lifting one of the swathes of leather. "That's the point. Zevran? She'll need to be sewn in right from the beginning."

The elf rose to his feet, duly producing a stiff, leather-working needle and a skein of thread. He went to assist the bard, dragging over the stool from the hearth to perch himself on as he bent to Flora's waist. Flashing a quick wink up at the astonished bride, he began to pin the leather around her hips.

Finian, who had been present in the relevant discussion between Fergus, Eamon and Leliana, took pity on his younger sister and went to explain; his gaze still firmly directed at the ceiling.

"Floss, your greatest asset as queen will be that you're _not traditional._ You're the Hero of Ferelden; a girl with the power to summon and lead armies; a _dragon slayer."_

"It was a demon in the form of a dragon, not an_ actual_ dragon," Flora corrected with Herring pedantry, lifting her arms obediently as Leliana fastened a swathe of buttery-soft leather around her waist.

Finian rolled his eye at his sister's exactness, leaning back against the bed cushions.

"It doesn't matter. Flossie, do you _know_ how many eyes across Thedas have been studying the map over the past year? Knowing that Ferelden is _vulnerable_? Wondering how _far_ they could possibly encroach upon our borders while we've been dealing with Darkspawn in the east?"

Flora blinked, feeling Zevran's deft fingers brush against her hip as he worked the needle skilfully through the leather.

"Now, it helps that there's a popular Theirin on the throne once again," Finian continued, as his sister rotated according to Leliana's quiet instructions. "Alistair has the look of Maric, and has proven himself in battle. But there's a message that needs to start spreading across Thedas from _now – _that Ferelden's new rulers are undoubtedly _unconventional, _but they're as strong as silverite and twice as unyielding."

"_Oui," _mumbled Leliana, her mouth full of pins. "And that Alistair's queen is one who can summon and lead armies. Who has slain Archdemons and ended Blights."

"Just the _one _Blight. What's that got to do with my _outfit? – _oh," said Flora, suddenly recalling the conversation from yesterday. "You're dressing me like one of the Alamarri."

Finian clapped his hands together, finally daring to look at his sister now that her bosom had been sewn into a leather corset.

"Like one of the ancient tribal queens, yes," he murmured, and although he did not _say _the name of the Maker's Bride; the inference was clear. "The women who rallied armies of thousands and then fought like banshees at their side. This is the image we are presenting today."

Flora scratched her nose, thoughtfully. She had been told a hundred times of her typically _Fereldan_ colouring – the milk white skin, the dark red hair, usually in conjunction with remarks on her traditionally-hewn profile. All the Couslands were descended from one of the oldest Alamarri tribes; it just so happened that these ancient phenotypes had manifested particularly strongly in her.

* * *

It took a full hour for Flora to be sewn fully into the leather garb. She bore it with northern stoicism; it had taken almost as long for her to don full Grey Warden ceremonial garb.

"This reminds me of when we were preparing for the Landsmeet vote," she said, lifting her mass of hair above her shoulders so that Leliana could adjust a final strap. "Remember, when I got dressed up in proper Warden stuff for the first time?"

"_Oui, _and this outfit today is _also_ for the purpose of spectacle. Can you breathe?"

Flora had been a little worried when she had seen the corset – with painful memories of being laced into them tight enough to disguise her swollen stomach – but this one had been cut perfectly to the curve of her belly, to _emphasise _rather than to hide.

"I can breathe," she said, eyeing her fur-lined, leather-boosted cleavage in awe. "But I think I might knock the Grand Cleric's hat off with _these _if I turn around too quickly_. _I feel all… thrusty._"_

"I _can't_ breathe," announced Zevran dramatically, collapsing backwards on the bed and gazing at Flora in a great imitation of a moonstruck youth. "You're going to feature prominently in my erotic fantasies tonight, _mi sirenita."_

Flora continued to stare at herself in the full length mirror, eyes wide. The bodice emphasised her breasts and her high, rounded belly, the soft, dark leather clinging lovingly to the flesh. It was cut low in the back to expose her from neck to base of spine, and the skirts flowed about her legs like liquid; cut up to the thigh. She would wear no boots, since the Alamarri traditionally wed barefoot.

"When you said it was a _leather_ dress, I thought I'd get _really sweaty," _Flora said at last, letting out a cackle. "But I can see that's not going to be a problem. How many cows died to make this? Actually, probably only _half _a cow. There's not much of it."

"A cow-leg," added Zevran, with an appreciative smirk. "If that."

_It's meant to show off the baby, _Flora thought to herself, eyeing herself a final time in the mirror as Leliana stepped back, placing needle and thread proudly back in the pouch. _And the marks left by the Archdemon on my thigh and between my shoulder-blades._

_It's a message without words. Just like when I was Warden-Commander and wore my hair in the high ponytail every day. On the morning of the final battle, everyone had the crimson ribbon wrapped about their weapons._

"You look beautiful, and very _Fereldan," _Leliana murmured, unable to stop a beam of pride from spreading across her own lovely features. "Let them see that _this_ queen does not wear Orlesian silk or Nevarran scent."

"She wears FISH OIL!!"

"She does _not," _countered the bard with a _moue _of horror, a small glass vial manifesting in her hand. "She wears _essence of violet_. Give me your wrists."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: OOoohhh the wedding day is finally here! How exciting. And Flo's getting all strapped up into her hot leather mama gear, haha. 
> 
> Flora is not going to be a hot leather mama at her own wedding if she gets her own way and drenches herself in fish oil though, haha.
> 
> Incidentally, the film reference scene from the previous chapter was CLUELESS! The bit where Cher helps her lawyer-father with underlining deposition documents.


	53. The Kaddis Marked Queen

As the eleventh hour of the wedding day crept nearer, the taverns and inns of Denerim began to empty. The citizens had begun their celebrating early – many had been eating and drinking since dawn – but all were aware that at the _eleventh hour_, the lady Cousland would be making her way from the palace to the Square of the Bride. The route that she would take was obvious – soldiers of the Royal Army were already lining the street on both sides, under the direction of General Bryland – and the people wished to claim a decent spot from which to view their future queen and her brothers.

Eager to show their appreciation for the girl who had become the public face of Ferelden's victory over the Fifth Blight, spectators had gathered fistfuls of wildflowers to throw before the Cousland horses. Others – aware of Flora's unusual background – had scattered dozens of seashells across the road. Crimson ribbons had been tied to sticks, ready to be waved frantically once the bridal procession came into view.

Children, who did not quite understand what was going on, but who had picked up on their parents' excitement, scampered about the stern-faced soldiers; picking up handfuls of scattered blossoms and tossing them into the air. Others plucked up stray strands of crimson silk and ran alongside the canals to make the ribbons flutter joyfully in their wake.

The king, Chancellor and other members of the Landsmeet had already made their way to the Grand Chantry an hour prior. Those who had gone early to claim their vantage points along the route were rewarded with a glimpse of the royal retinue. Alistair, a sheen of sweat on his brow, cut an impressive figure on his warhorse; head bare in preparation for the coronation regalia. He lifted a distracted hand to acknowledge the crowds that had gathered to greet him, smiling with excitement and nervousness mingling on his handsome face.

Back up in the Rebel Queen's childhood bedchamber, the bride's final preparations were taking place. After the novelty of the leather garb had worn off, Flora wandered over to the window seat. Propping her bare legs up against the stone wall, she gazed down at the activity in the lower courtyard. The bells were still pealing joyfully in the city below; their mingled metallic chiming echoing the great sonorous boom of the Grand Chantry belfry.

Idly, Flora twisted _Mairyn's Star _around her fourth finger, then remembered that she was supposed to place it on her other hand in preparation for the marriage band.

Finian and Wynne had departed to seek out Fergus, but Zevran was seated beside her, plaiting a handful of slender braids into her loose, dark red hair. Flora had not cut it for over six months, and it now fell in a heavy mass to her waist. She was not wearing the Cousland diadem – for the crown of a queen would soon be placed upon her head – but a dozen laurel leaves worked in gold, each no larger than a fingernail, had been threaded amidst the cloud of oxblood curls; cunningly placed to catch the light.

Leliana, in the meantime, was finishing off her own subtle makeup, a handheld enamelled mirror held before her carefully painted face. Underneath the austere Chantry garb, she had donned a pair of silk stockings edged with ribbon; a source of secret pleasure that would be hidden by the robe's long skirt.

"There: I am ready," the bard announced, aware that all eyes would be on her during the closing hymn. "Zevran, are you finished?"

The elf replied an affirmative in his native tongue, licking his thumb and sweeping back a stray curl from Flora's forehead.

_"__Sí. _Are you ready for her?"

Leliana nodded, gesturing impatiently for Flora to come over to the bed. There was a faint glow of perspiration on the bard's forehead – she had contributed as much as Eamon to the day's organisation, and was acutely aware that the success of the coronation could open many potential doors for her future.

Lowering her bare legs, Flora rose to her feet and padded obediently across the flagstones. Sitting down on the bed beside the bard, she let Leliana take her chin and tilt it upwards.

"The Maker worked His best artistry on your face, _ma petite_," said the lay-sister after a moment, giving a small, slightly rueful laugh as she set aside the gilded palette that had been in her possession since Val Royeux. "We need not enhance your eyes or mouth with cosmetics."

Instead, Leliana went to open a small, rounded tin, which turned out to contain a dark red paste with a familiar herbal odour.

"Is that- " Flora started, and Leliana responded with a little nod.

_"__Oui, _it is _kaddis. _Nowadays the people of Ferelden daub it on the faces of their Mabari; but the Alamarri once wore it on their bodies when they were going into battle."

Flora eyed the crimson paste for a moment, and then shrugged her shoulders cheerfully.

"Mm. Is this the last thing we have to do?"

Leliana nodded, dipping the tip of her smallest finger into the crimson paste.

_"__Oui. _You have been very patient, daughter of Herring."

The daughter of Herring made to smile, and then froze as Leliana lifted her finger to her cheek, daubing a simple, archaic pattern beneath Flora's gold-flecked eye. Withdrawing her hand, the bard beamed; delighted with her own handiwork.

_"__Et, voila! _We are ready. I admit, it is nice to see you out of the same_ three _dull tunics that you always wear."

Flora stood before the mirror, gazing at herself in astonishment. The dark leather clung to the augmented curves of her body, sewn into place so that there was not an inch of spare material. It was deliberately archaic in design – a dress from an Age long past. In the back, it dropped to the base of her spine, leaving her shoulders and arms bare; in the front, the cut of the leather emphasised the swell of her breasts. The skirt was slit high enough to show her Archdemon-marked thigh, her feet left traditionally bare. Her hair fell to her waist like thick, curling tendrils of dark red seaweed, glinting where the golden laurel leaves had been threaded. The _kaddis _pattern daubed beneath her right eye stood out stark against the paleness of her cheek; the only cosmetic enhancement used on her solemn, fine-boned face.

"I don't usually look like this," she said in awe after a moment, in the understatement of the Age. "I look…"

"Like a beautiful, fearsome woman who _kills dragons_ and _births kings_," murmured Leliana, the pride aglow on her features. "Or queens. Whatever this little one is."

_"__Sí," _agreed Zevran throatily, manifesting on Flora's other side and sliding a lean arm around her waist. "I'd wager that Arl Teagan, Leonas Bryland - _all_ the men who usually call you _pup _and _poppet _and _child _\- will not be doing so today."

"It was a demon, not a dragon," Flora corrected for the second time that morning, still distracted by the startling, painted girl in the mirror. "Can I have a quick snack before we go? Otherwise my stomach will rumble throughout the ceremony."

Leliana appeared about to acquiesce, and then the distinct, clear sound of the eleventh-hour bell rose above the distant chimes of the city Chantries. The bard shot upright as though electrified by mage lightning; her blue eyes widening in alarm.

"You'll have to eat and walk, _ma petite!"_

The bard led the way down the corridors, her head held high with the imperious self-import of the Chantry. Flora followed in her wake, munching methodologically on some carrot sticks, the flagstones cold against her bare feet. Bringing up the rear, the elf glided along with leonine elegance, the corner of his mouth curling upwards as he noted the reaction of those whom they came across.

Sure enough, as they passed the stained glass Calenhad window, the servants in the corridor ahead drew back against the walls; dropping into far deeper bows than were customary.

_"__Your Majesty_," they breathed, in tones that ranged from respectful to reverent.

Flora eyed them in mild confusion, swallowing the last bite of carrot.

"I'm not married to Alistair yet," she said to Leliana's cream-silk clad shoulders as the bard swept towards the entrance hall. "Why are they calling me that?"

"Because you look like a queen, _ma crevette," _her companion replied, her gaze fixed straight ahead.

Flora shrugged; it was a fair point. Two wide-eyed guards shoved hastily at a pair of double doors, and then they were emerging out into the palace entrance hall.

This cavernous space, with its great flying buttresses and dual lines of opposing hearths, had also been decorated in honour of the upcoming nuptials. The entwined Cousland-Theirin banner hung from the lofty ceiling beams; each one hanging down in a glorious parade of crimson, emerald green and gold. Sunlight cascaded in through the high windows, casting an array of gleaming patterns on the newly-replaced velvet carpet.

At the far end of the hall, the Cousland brothers stood amidst a crowd of their retainers., They formed a mass of Highever colours, clad in matching livery; Fergus wearing the teyrn's crown on his short-cropped russet hair, and Finian wearing a smaller band to denote his newly granted arl's status. The latter was saying something to Fergus to make him laugh, gesturing to one of the great Mabari statues that guarded the entrance. The teyrn grinned, making some comment back while raising a tankard in an impromptu toast.

At the sound of Leliana's heels tapping against the flagstones, the retainers fell into a respectful silence. Finian, trying not to smile, nudged for his brother to look around.

" – don't want to get started too early," Fergus continued saying jovially as he turned. "The ale isn't worth the- "

The young teyrn broke off his sentence abruptly, jaw falling open. The tankard dropped from his hand – fortunately, the contents splattered over the carpeting as opposed to his navy velvet tunic – and he mouthed silently for a moment.

"I told you," Finian declared gleefully, striding forward to greet their little sister when it appeared that _elder _brother was still struck dumb. "Floss, you look like something from the old stories. _Elethea the Fair and Unyielding."_

Flora had no idea who that was, and so gazed up at her tall brother without responding. Finian brushed a slender scholar's finger over her cheek, his feather-light touch tracing the _kaddis_ pattern daubed there.

"You look ravishing," he said, admiring the golden laurel leaves woven into her hair. "Ravishing, and a little like you need to be _tamed. _You wild beauty."

Fergus managed to gather his composure sufficient to come forwards and greet his sister. Instead of embracing Flora, he chose to ruffle her on the head in a gruff, almost fatherly manner.

"You do look astonishing, Florence," he said, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on her face. "I can understand what Eamon was going on about last night now- the whole _Alamarri _concept. I thought he had drunk a little too much Antivan port-wine and forgotten what Age we were in."

Flora smiled up at him while Zevran gave an appreciative snort; more than aware of the potency of his native country's port-wine.

"Anyway, I've – I've got something for you, " the teyrn continued, reaching into the pocket of his velvet tunic. "I don't know if it'll match what you're wearing, but… I thought it would be a good gift."

"But it's not my birthday," Flora replied, relatively certain that had passed several days prior. "Why are you giving me a gift?"

Fergus did not mention that three storage chambers in the palace had currently been stacked to the brim with wedding gifts brought by the foreign guests; each one trying to outdo the other. Instead, he held out a slender golden bangle in the shape of an elongated laurel leaf. Flora gazed at it, wide-eyed; Fergus reached for her hand and slid the bangle on over her slender, nail-bitten fingers. The metal band fell down about her wrist, heavy and gleaming in the hearth-light.

"Now you can take a piece of Highever with you down the aisle. Your father, by the way, will be seated with us – next to Finian. So you'll be able to see him well enough."

"Thank you," Flora breathed after a moment, absurdly touched by her elder brother's thoughtful gift. She reached up and Fergus ducked his head, letting her put her arms around his neck. He went to pat her back, then realised that the entire expanse of skin – from her neck to the base of her spine – was bare, and hastily went to pat her shoulder instead.

The great doors were opened to the sunny gravelled forecourt, the Cousland retainers flooding out in a sea of navy and olive. The horses had already been brought out from the stables – crimson ribbons plaited into their manes and tails, and pale lilies woven around their bridles – but there followed a slight delay as they were allocated out to each rider. The men milled around, laughing and exchanging light-hearted comments as the stable-boys frantically tried to assign each horse to a knight.

"I _definitely_ left instructions regarding this!" snarled Leliana, abandoning her demure lay-sister demeanour and plunging into the melee. "I should never _delegate!"_

"Flora?"

A soft, familiar voice echoed from the shady patch beside the wall. While everyone else busied themselves with the horses, Flora picked her way carefully over to where the senior enchanter was standing. Wynne was clad in her best maroon silk robes, the fabric expensive and weighty; her silver hair caught up in a simple, elegant bun.

"Ow, I hope there's not too much _gravel_ between here and the Grand Chantry," Flora whispered, lifting one bare foot and then the other. "Ouch. You look lovely, Wynne."

Wynne smiled down at her, and there came a sudden gleam in the old mage's periwinkle-blue eyes.

"As do you, Flora. But that's _not_ the praise I wanted to give you on this morning: you've always been a beautiful girl, regardless of outfit."

Flora's brow furrowed, but she remained silent to let the elder mage speak. Wynne took a deep breath, her gaze not leaving Flora's face.

"I know that I've been strict with you on our travels; perhaps _overly _so at times. I think I've spent more time lecturing you during this past nine months than I did in four years at the Circle. And I did so because… I was afraid that you were not ready for the burden of the Blight to be placed upon your shoulders: I saw at first only a naïve little girl fresh from a Tower, supremely inexperienced and possessing a minor obsession with _fish."_

"Not _minor_," Flora corrected; the senior enchanter smiled and continued.

"I may be a stubborn old woman, but I'll readily admit when I'm wrong. Now, I don't know whether you call it grace, or _grit,_ or northern stoicism – but you've borne yourself with great merit throughout all of this, child."

Wynne spread out her hands, somehow encompassing _all of it:_ the gathering of the armies, the Landsmeet, the final battle, the wedding and the crown that would follow; a golden band that would bind Flora to a public life for the rest of her years.

"I know you asked for none of it. But you've made me so proud, 'Flora Cove'."

The senior enchanter had clearly rehearsed these words alone in her chamber, so that any tears could be expended on the _practise_ and not the _actual._

"I was glad to have you lecture me, because you're so wise," replied Flora, immediate and heartfelt. "And I needed you to be strict, because sometimes I _was _silly and naive. You've been like a mother to me, Wynne, and I'll always be grateful for it."

"More like a _grandmother," _Wynne corrected, in a vain attempt to suppress the surge of emotion that followed. "You're far too young to be my daughter."

During her rehearsals, the senior enchanter had envisioned what Flora might reply - but _this_ was certainly nothing that she had predicted. It was too late: the tears had broken free and were trickling down the senior enchanter's face.

Flora looked about her for a cloth- there was certainly no room for _pockets _on her dress – and finally just used her thumbs to gently brush the liquid away from the older woman's cheeks. Wynne took a deep breath, steeling herself and envisioning Gregoir's stern and un-amused expression.

"Floss?"

Fergus approached on the saddle of a lofty chestnut mare, the Highever colours hanging down in silken tassels from its bridle. The horses had finally been assigned correctly; the retainers who would go on foot were whispering excitedly to one another.

Flora gazed at her eldest brother, putting up a hand to shield her eyes from the overhead sun. Fergus grinned back at her, removing a leather riding glove and reaching down a hand.

"Ready to go?"

Ser Gilmore approached with eyes professionally lowered and arms outstretched. Flora let herself be picked up, grateful for the respite on her bare feet. Fergus leaned down, receiving his little sister from the knight's arms and settling her in the saddle before him.

"Comfortable?" he said in her ear, sliding one arm around her stomach as he had seen Alistair do. "More importantly: _secure?"_

Flora nodded, leaning back against her brother's chest. She noticed Ser Gilmore trying his hardest not to look at her exposed leg as it dangled by the horse's neck. The skirt of the dress fell in such a way that it revealed her thigh, and she remembered suddenly the _purpose _of the dress' design.

_Not just to remind the audience that we're descended from the Alamarri. But to remind them that I survived the assault of an Archdemon's soul._

She dropped a finger to trace the white starburst-shaped mark on her outer thigh, large as a man's spread hand. There was a similar one on her abdomen, though this was hidden by the dress, and smaller silvered marks on the flat of her palms. The largest scar was on her back, between her shoulder blades – the aftermath of the Archdemon tearing through her body in a frantic attempt to gain purchase had utterly obliterated her _Peraquialus _freckles.

Before mounting her own grey mare, Leliana advanced forward with the same dark sable fur that she had draped around Flora in the Guerrin manor. The bard passed the fur up to Fergus, who wrapped it carefully around his sibling's bare back.

Feeling the heavy weight on her shoulders, Flora gazed up at the encroaching midday sun and then cast a plaintive look down at Leliana.

"I'm going to sweat like a pig!"

"Think of _cool_ things," Leliana instructed, sternly. "Think on Herring. The wind, the waves…"

_The unfriendly locals, the depressing stone huts, the relentless drizzle, _the bard continued, mentally.

Flora nodded mutedly, clutching the fur around her chest and shifting position on the saddle. Suddenly, she was grateful for the exposed back, shoulders and leg of the dress; the gaps in the leather would hopefully allow for some air to circulate.

"Right," announced Fergus, raising his voice. "Let's get my little sister married, eh?"

There rose a cheer from the gathered retainers, and Finian let out a cackle that echoed to the lofty crenelated towers above.

"It's only taken nine Ages to get a Cousland on the throne. Better late than never!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So I don't know if I ever mentioned this or not, but I envisioned the Royal Palace entrance hall as looking like the only bit of the castle that you get to see in game – the bit with the blue carpeting.
> 
> Elethea – who Finian compares Flora with – is actually a Cousland ancestor. She was the Alamarri teyrna of Highever who led an army against Calenhad in an attempt to resist the unification of Ferelden. It was actually super fun to write about Flo getting all dressed up for a change, since- for pretty much the entire time I've written her – she's been wearing Alistair's shirts, plain tunics, ratty old wooden jumpers. I also thought the kaddis thing on the face was a nice Alamarri-esque touch (reminiscent of the whole Celtic warriors woad facepaint thing) though it's just headcanon, lol.
> 
> Flora Cove is of course the name that Flora went by in the Circle, named after the little cove that Herring was located on.


	54. En Route To The Grand Chantry

As Fergus nudged the mare gently in the ribs with the toe of his leather boot, Flora felt a slow roll of fear in her stomach; curdling the carrots and porridge she had eaten for her breakfast.

_What's wrong with you? _she berated herself inwardly, furious at her own nervousness. _You've faced down hordes of Darkspawn, assassins – and demons in the Fade. Why are you scared of this?_

The Cousland procession made its way down through the palace hunting grounds; which seemed far sparser after its trees had been taken for reinforcement scaffolds and siege weaponry during the last weeks of the Blight. As they neared the boundary walls, the sound of the city bells grew louder, rising into a tangled metallic choir of pealing. Loudest and deepest of all, the Grand Chantry bells rang out an imperious summons.

_Florence Cousland, your king and crown await you._

Flora swallowed, feeling her pulse surge in her throat like a runaway horse.

_I wish you were still here, _she thought miserably, knowing that her spirits were unable to hear her – if even they still _existed. I don't know if I can be brave without you._

Palace guardsmen and soldiers from the Royal Army were lining the route ahead, the crowds having flooded out of the taverns and onto the streets to catch a glimpse of the bride. As soon as the first Cousland retainers came into view, a cheer went up; the people clustering as close as they dared to the side of the road.

Finian, who openly delighted in the attention, grinned and raised his hand to acknowledge the cheers. Leliana, who also enjoyed the attention but was more graceful in her reception of it, let a mysterious smile play over her lips; bowing her head demurely as she guided her mare with an expert hand.

Flora was grateful for the natural neutrality of her face; she had become so renowned for her solemn demeanour that not even the crowds were expecting her to smile. She turned her head from side to side, looking at the frantically waving crimson ribbons, while children threw flowers and tiny pink seashells into the road before the horses. Their iron-clad hooves crunched the delicate curlicues of calcium into fragments; the sound reminded Flora of when the Waking Sea flung a great wash of sand and shale against the reef in furious temper. Fragments of shell – from broken barnacles and conches – would be strewn over the rocks, along with fragments of driftwood and clumps of blackish-green seaweed.

As a bead of sweat broke out on Flora's forehead, she decided to take Leliana's advice and _think on Herring._

She could not close her eyes to summon the memory, so instead opened her mouth and let the salt-edged Denerim air linger on her tongue. The seagulls called out mournfully overhead; in her mind, she envisioned a harsh northern edge to their tone and added the other birds of the Storm Coast: cormorant, gannets and silver-backed terns.

_The gulls are fatter and tamer here in the city, used to feasting on gutter run-off and the deluge of rotting waste from the fish-markets. In Herring, they have to fight for every scrap and bone; too slow, and they'll get a swift kick from an irate fisherman. When I was too young to go out on the boats, I used to chase them away from the lobster pots._

_How many lobster pots were fastened to the reef? We could never build piers and jetties like those here that extend out into the sweet-natured Amaranthine Ocean. The Waking Sea would chew them apart in an instant and hurl their remains onto the beach in contempt._

_Sixteen, I think. Was it sixteen?_

_It was sixteen. The last two were fastened to iron rings bolted right at the end of the Hag's Teeth. I used to clamber over the reef barefoot to empty them, avoiding the patches slick with weed._

_I was always barefoot, wasn't I? I don't think I started wearing shoes until the Circle Tower. Even then it took about two years before I grew used to them. The Templars kept shouting at me to put my boots on._

Flora looked down at her bare feet – her toes extending out beneath the soft, rich brown sable fur - and felt oddly comforted.

_I remember the drizzle always coming through the roof; every building in Herring leaked like a sieve. No one had rugs or carpeting – it would have rotted away in weeks – just planking, or compacted wet sand. You grew used to being always damp and cold, no matter the season; I bet it's raining in Herring now, even as the sun shines down here. The sky would be a muddy wash of cloud, darker in patches where storms were brewing._

_What else do I remember?_

The answer came as a crashing resonance in her mind, echoing with the sound of prevailing winds and the lash of rain. The waves hurled themselves against the confines of her skull, relentless in their assault. The Waking Sea was far from the largest ocean in Thedas; it was narrow and vicious as a snake, perpetually furious and ready to wage war on those who dared venture onto its waters.

_I spent ten years living in the thrall of your almighty wrath; in defiance of your frenzied storms and treacherous tides. You chewed up entire fleets like toothpicks, spitting out the wreckage of galleons and men onto our rocks and beaches. How many times did I press my lips to the mouths of drowned men, trying to breathe some life back into them? Most of the time, you won; you claimed their lives in watery tribute._

_But, not always._

_My Herring-dad went out on you every day in a boat no larger than a bathtub. I lived my childhood chasing the waves, collecting driftwood and emptying rock-pools. I don't know how many nights I spent roped to the Hag's Teeth with golden light surging outwards from my skin; until the ships turned away from the deadly reef and back into the safety of the open water._

_I wasn't scared of you, although I was a child and should rightly have been terrified. And the reason why I wasn't scared, wasn't because of my spirits. It was because my dad wasn't scared. He was from Herring, after all; and the people of Herring have seawater in their veins and coarse sand in their hearts. They don't frighten easily._

Flora looked down at the plump white pearl on her finger – _Mairyn's Star – _and knew that at the centre of its lustrous beauty lay a tiny fleck of grit; without which there would be no jewel at all.

_I might be Bryce Cousland's daughter and the lover of Ferelden's newest king, but I'm still a Herring girl. There's coarse sand in my heart, too._

A moment later, she realised that her anxieties had dissolved like salt in water; her stomach settled and her heart beating at its normal, sedentary rhythm.

_What was I even scared of? Come on, now. There are harder things than walking down an aisle and having something placed on your head._

_And I'll be married to Alistair at the end of it. I'll be his wife. _

The horses came to a halt with a stutter of hoofbeats and Flora startled as though awakened suddenly from a deep sleep. They had reached the Square of the Bride – emptied of crowds by the guards – and the Grand Chantry loomed above them like the shadow of the Maker Himself. The pealing of the great bells in the lofty towers had reached a crescendo, the sound resonating between the Chantry offices and Templar headquarters that flanked the Square.

The Cousland retainers immediately busied themselves with the horses, their faces bright with excitement. After the murder of the old teyrn and teyrna, and the general slaughter at Highever; this wedding seemed to confirm the triumphant resurrection of the bloodied but unbroken Cousland family.

Fergus slid down onto the cobblestones, the golden band on his forehead glinting in the sun. It was a few minutes before midday, and the Square was bathed in a mellow, cloudless light. He reached up to help his sister from the saddle, gazing down at her with a touch of anxiety.

"Are you alright, Floss? You didn't say a word on the way here."

Flora smiled up at him, realising that she _was _alright; that the nervousness from earlier had evaporated, leaving a steely resolution in its wake. The fur sat snug around her shoulders; no longer hot or overly weighty.

_I have to get this right. Not just for Leliana, but for Alistair, and for Ferelden. If we get this right, it sends a message across all Thedas._

Before she could reply, Leliana herself swept forwards; the Chantry headdress already pinned in place over her braided auburn locks. The bard gave the young Cousland a quick once-over, purring in approval as she rested her fingers against Flora's forehead and felt the coolness of the skin.

"Good girl – I _told _you that you wouldn't sweat! Now – are you ready?"

"Herring girls are ready for anything," Flora replied, immediately. "A Hurlock could pop up from behind Andraste's flame and I'd _take it out_ with Alistair's royal skarp- skorp – _spork."_

"_Sceptre," _corrected Leliana, with a little laugh. "And I doubt that scenario is likely, but it's good to know that you're prepared for it nonetheless."

The bard reached up to add the final touch to Flora's entrance garb – a sheer black veil, lined with a hundred tiny ivory pearls.

_Remember how we practised the disrobing of this and the fur last night, _the bard's eyes reminded her silently. _A dozen times with the pillowcase and bedsheet, until you had mastered it._

Flora nodded: she remembered.

Once the horses had been led to the Templar stables nearby, the others prepared to take their leave. They would not be ascending the fifty four basalt steps that led up to the Grand Chantry's great oak doors; but instead travel a short distance around the west face of the building, entering the cathedral by a side entrance to take their seats. Wynne and Leliana departed arm in arm with Zevran and Finian in their wake; the elf blowing a kiss over his shoulder as they left. The rest of the Cousland retainers followed soon afterwards, and eventually Fergus and Flora were left alone in the shadow of the Chantry towers.

"Are you alright going up all these steps?" asked the teyrn as they approached the dark basalt stair, eyeing Flora's bare feet and the heavy fur wrapped around her shoulders. "I'm not built _quite _on the lines of your future husband, but I'm reasonably sure that I could piggy-back you up to the top."

Flora gave a little cackle, the sound slightly muffled behind the dark veil; proving her capability by doggedly plodding her way up one step at a time. Focusing on planting her bare feet on each sun-warmed ledge in turn, she barely noticed Fergus quicken his pace to catch her up.

"Flossie?"

"Mm?"

Halfway up the stone flight of steps, Flora stopped and turned to face her oldest brother; her elder by ten years. He was gazing down at her, expression conflicted and grey-blue eyes clouded. Fergus had more the look of Eleanor than Bryce; the Cousland colouring diluted somewhat by his maternal heritage.

"You – this _is _alright with you, isn't it?"

"Eh?"

Fergus flashed her a brief, rueful smile, one hand lifting up to rub at the back of his head in a way that triggered a faint flicker of memory in Flora's mind.

_I think my father used to do that. My Highever father._

"All this," he muttered, not quite meeting her gaze. "It feels a little as though – you've not had much_ choice_ in the matter. The wedding happening so quickly, becoming queen- I know it must be overwhelming."

Flora gazed thoughtfully up at him through the dark veil, seeing the sincerity behind his surface awkwardness.

"I won't have you forced into anything you don't want to do," her brother continued, determinedly. "So – tell me now, Floss, if you don't want this to happen. I'll stop it, I'll stop it all. And I can protect you from any repercussions, so…. don't worry about that."

"But everyone has come from all across Thedas," Flora said, watching his face closely. "The Landsmeet are all here. You'd be in so much _trouble _if you stopped it_. _And – Finian said it earlier. The Couslands have waited nine Ages to put someone on the throne."

Fergus flushed slightly, but his reply was steady and even.

"You're my little sister. I failed at protecting you once; I won't let it happen again. Everybody else be damned."

Flora stood up on her bare toes and put her arms around her brother's neck, pressing her lips to his bearded cheek.

"Thank you," she whispered, smiling at him as she withdrew, settling back down on her heels. "You're a good brother to me. But I promise: I'm ready for this. I can do it."

"You're certain, pup?"

Flora nodded earnestly, laughing at the look of relief that swept over Fergus' face.

"Thank the Maker," he commented, exhaling loudly as they resumed climbing the last dozen basalt steps. "Alistair would most likely have attainted me on the spot; right after the Grand Cleric's excommunication."

Flora smiled sideways at him through the veil, wondering idly how grubby the soles of her feet were going to be. Fergus made another light-hearted comment, but this was drowned out by the deafening pealing of the great bells directly overhead. The belfry was located at the highest point in the Chantry's central tower, five hundred feet above.

They came to a halt outside the vast oak doors that marked the main entrance into Denerim's Grand Chantry. Unable to talk to Fergus due to the joyful exuberance of the bells, Flora gazed at the scarred wooden surface of the doors, vaguely remembering a legend that Leliana had told her at Revanloch.

_Wasn't there a siege here once, during the Orlesian occupation? Sixteen Fereldan knights barricaded themselves within the Grand Chantry; managing to resist an entire battalion of chev – chavolors – chevoolers - _Orlesian knights _for a week before succumbing._

The ancient doors were littered with dents and gouge-marks; Flora wondered if there was any truth to the old story. The baby gave a little nudge inside her belly, waking up after a long nap. She dropped an idle hand to her stomach, sliding her fingers inside the fur to rest on the form-fitting calfskin.

_Almost ready to go and see your papa. I hope you're prepared for your role in all this._

Beside her, Fergus shifted from foot to foot, a bead of sweat rising to his forehead. Flora realised with a small twinge of astonishment that her confident older brother was _nervous; _perhaps worried on her behalf, perhaps reminding himself of the role that he had to play in the ceremony. She withdrew her hand from the fur and placed it on Fergus' elbow, giving it a little squeeze of reassurance. He reached out to clutch her fingers in place on his arm, lines of tension carved out around his mouth.

"_It'll be fine," _she mouthed as his anxious eyes slid down towards her. _"Don't worry."_

Just then, the bells overhead stopped ringing; arrested in their movement by the timely grip of a rope. Their silence was unexpected and somehow deafening, and even Flora's own breath suddenly seemed loud. Moments later, as though the Grand Chantry belfry had issued some sort of signal, the Chantry towers across the city fell silent; the bells that had been pealing since dawn finally granted some respite. An electric, anticipatory quiet settled over the city, as though its people had inhaled collectively.

Fergus glanced down at his younger sister, his own breath catching in his throat. Beneath the dark, beaded veil Flora was staring at the oak doors as though she could see straight through them, her jaw set with the usual graveness and her stare as steely as silverite.

"Ready, Floss?"

She nodded wordlessly, long past talking; her entire body posed in readiness.

_Deep breath, chin up, eyes straight._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol I promise the actual wedding will take place next chapter! If there's one thing you've learnt after reading over a million words of my crap, is that I like to draw it ooooout, hehhe.
> 
> Flora still carries out her internal dialogue, except without the spirits answering back! It's just an ingrained habit, since she spent so much time talking to voices in her own head while growing up.
> 
> I like the bit with Fergus here – I thought it would be a nice parallel. The teenage Fergus ratted his little sister out as being a mage, which led to her being sent away to preserve the Cousland reputation. Now, fifteen years later, he's willing to stop the wedding – which would destroy the Cousland reputation – to protect the wellbeing of the same sister. As a reminder, being attainted was the worst punishment that could befall a noble – it was the stripping of the family name, land and title.


	55. The Royal Wedding

The Grand Chantry doors swung inwards, pulled simultaneously by a pair of strong-armed Cousland retainers. The great open space of the Chantry billowed out and up before them; vast, ancient and hewn from basalt. The light pouring down from the high windows was a lustrous greenish-gold, tinted by great, long skeins of Highever laurel. Every standing candelabra trailed crimson ribbons beneath fat beeswax candles, and each pillar was decorated with a hanging standard. Yet the decorative augmentations paled in comparison to the stark splendour of the architecture itself. The vaulted ceiling arched overhead in an intricate dance of stone beams and flying buttresses; the complexity above drew the eye upwards from the brutal simplicity of the basalt flagstones.

The pews on both the ground level and the upper gallery were filled beyond bursting point; many retainers relegated to standing against the walls. Never before had such an extensive spectrum of colour been witnessed with Ferelden's Grand Chantry; the most luxuriant fabrics that Thedas had to offer wrapped around some of its most notable – and notorious – personages.

As Ferelden's closest trading partner, the men and women from the Marches had been placed immediately behind the members of the Landsmeet. They wore a clashing riot of colours that reflected their divided houses; there were three separate dynasties present within their crowd. The Orlesians – silently annoyed at being placed behind the Marchers – were grouped either around the _Grand-Duc _Gaspard or Madame du Fer, a mage of impeccable elegance, according to their own factional preference. Due to their predilection for expensively weighty silks, the Orlesians rustled in their seats whenever they moved; a miasma of perfume rising from their collective mass.

The Pentaghasts of Nevarra were similar in feature – richly tanned skin, sable-dark hair – and wore matching shades of mustard and black. They were seated near a cluster of Antivan trade princes, one of whom had spent the past ten minutes sweating frantically after catching sight of Zevran. Templars had been posted ostentatiously near the contingent from Tevinter. The magisters wore long jewel-toned robes in shades of violet and crimson, cut to show off swathes of oiled olive flesh. Several of them were twitching nervously after being divested of their staves on entering the Chantry.

Few who had been sent an invitation had declined: it would have been fascinating enough to witness this new son of Maric and long-lost Cousland daughter take the throne, but the fact that they were both former _Grey Wardens _who had almost single-handedly raised an army and defeated a Blight with unprecedented swiftness, added to their allure. The bride slaying the Archdemon while reportedly with child was additionally enthralling – although most present had no idea _how _heavy with child she was, assuming it was only a handful of weeks at most.

The congregation rose to their feet, turning as one to greet the bride and her brother as they made their entrance. Three hundred of the most prestigious faces in Thedas turned towards the slight figure draped in dark sable fur, her face and hair covered by a modest black veil and her hand placed on the elbow of the Teyrn of Highever.

_I thought she would be taller, _was the collective thought of the foreigners present. _This is the one who slew a dragon._

Beside her, Flora heard Fergus take a deep breath, lifting his chin and summoning every inch of their late father's commanding presence to chase away the last tell-tale fragments of nerves.

Flora, on the other hand, could not feel more at ease. Any remaining anxieties had evaporated the moment that she had set eyes on the broad-shouldered figure standing near the altar; a head taller than those positioned at his side. Although the space between them was too far to discern any details – the aisle was two hundred feet in length – Flora knew that Alistair's eyes were focused unblinking on her; his fingers twitching impatiently at his sides in readiness to take those of his former sister-warden.

_Though our blood-bond is broken, our fish-rope is stronger than ever._

Alistair was clad in soft tan leather, the supple material cut to emphasis his warrior's frame and edged with gleaming silverite trimmings. Fur lined his collar, cut high around the neck, and the facial hair that Alistair had so determinedly cultivated since becoming king granted him both maturity and authority. Eamon, as Chancellor of Ferelden, stood at his side clad in Redcliffe finery; nearby, the Grand Cleric Elemena took advantage of the congregation's distraction to surreptitiously adjust the angle of her lofty hat.

The flagstones were cold beneath Flora's bare feet as she shifted her weight onto her stronger leg, waiting for the agreed signal. She could feel the prickling of hundreds of curious eyes – from the pews extending out before her, from the gallery overhead – and ignored them; her own veiled stare fixated on her best friend as he stood awaiting her arrival.

Without warning, the slow and stately drumming began from both sides of the Chantry, the measured beat echoing up to the vaulted ceiling. Fergus, anchoring his sister's fingers tightly to his elbow, began the first few steps down the aisle. Flora trod dutifully at his side with her veiled head cast down demurely; for all purposes, a shy young bride. Before them, a half-dozen Chantry sisters proceeded with swinging censors, leaving behind perfumed trails of incense in the cool, shadowed air.

"The elf said that you wanted to _jog_ down here during the rehearsal," the teyrn murmured out of the corner of his mouth, the words disguised by the steadily increasing vigour of the drumming.

Flora couldn't help but let out a little snicker, grateful for the veil covering her face. More drums had joined the first pair, the drumming building in volume and intensity until a great, thunderous roll echoed up to the laurel-draped flying buttresses.

"I also stopped for a snack halfway down the aisle," she whispered back, spotting the _grand duc _and his Orlesian retinue in a lustrous crowd of silver and periwinkle blue.

"I _heard _about that," Fergus replied, his pace slow and measured at her side. "I hope we aren't getting a repeat performance today."

"Have you _seen _this dress?" Flora retorted without moving her mouth, keeping her gaze fixed on Alistair. "There's not enough room for an extra _button_, let alone a hidden snack!"

The congregation turned slowly to follow the bride's progress down the aisle; curious stares moving from the sheer dark silk covering her face, to the thick sable draped over her body. Many had already noticed that she was barefoot beneath the fur, more than one eyebrow rising into a finely plucked hairline.

It took a full three minutes before Fergus and Flora arrived at the wide swathe of stone steps that led up to the main altar, where king was stood waiting with the Grand Cleric of Ferelden at his side. The copper trough filled with Andraste's eternal flame blazed behind them, casting a mellifluous golden light across the flagstones. The great statue of Andraste Gloria loomed up at the rear of the transept; one stone palm held out to receive the Maker's blessing.

From the corner of her eye Flora could just about glimpse a host of familiar faces gathered in the pews at the front – she had already spotted Leonas Bryland's study frame, the general having arrived clad in full armour. Near him she caught sight of a silverite breastplate adorned with a familiar griffon emblem; with great difficulty, she managed to stop herself from turning to look.

_Focus, Flora. You have to get this right._

Her tall brother Finian was clear to discern, his lofty autumnal head rising above the squat figure of her own Herring-dad. Pel was awkwardly dressed in borrowed garb, and looked extremely uncomfortable.

_You and me both._

Flora had already seen where Leliana was standing, tucked discretely to one side amidst a row of similarly-attired lay-sisters. The bard's face was caught in a tangle of pride and nervous anticipation; the reflection of Andrastian flame flickering across her ivory robes.

The king, who had not taken his eyes off Flora since the doors had opened and she had entered, continued to stare at her with an unmatched intensity. They were now only feet apart, separated by three shallow steps and centuries of rigid protocol. Flora lifted her eyes to gaze back at him through the sheer filmy fabric of the veil.

The drumming stopped as abruptly as the bells had earlier; their last echoing rolls absorbed by the cool basalt of the Chantry walls. The silence that followed felt almost tangible; anticipation humming in the air like the cicadas of the south. Flora could feel the heat of three hundred stares, the congregation behind her blurring into a singular, scrutinising mass. Halfway down the neat row of lay-sisters gathered near the altar, Leliana gazed out steadily ahead; the bard's sweaty fingers wound into her robes.

_Don't worry, Leliana, _Flora thought to herself, taking a deep and steadying breath of air. _We practised this next bit with pillow-case and bed-sheet last night for an hour. I'll do it exactly as we rehearsed._

Eamon took a single step forward, his face grave and portentous. The last echoing beat died away as Fergus reached up about his sister's shoulders to retrieve the fur; ready to enact the traditional Andrastrian ritual before their fascinated guests.

_It feels more like an audience than a congregation, _Flora continued internally, ensuring that her loose mass of hair was still strategically caught into the collar of the fur. _I suppose we are putting on a show._

_Just like at the Landsmeet._

"'_And then Maferath said O! give my wife covering from our own stores. Scent of our scent and blood of our blood. So that she may be fully a Part of our House.'"_

The Grand Cleric's sonorous voice rang to the very heights of the vaulted ceiling as she began the wedding ceremony with the traditional recitation. Elemena had compensated for her two decades of hearing loss by gradually increasing the volume of her own words; until every sentence was almost a shout.

Fergus, at the Grand Cleric's cue, removed both fur and dark veil from his younger sister in a single gesture. As planned, the dark-red bulk of Flora's hair – carefully twisted into position beneath the collar, was swept to the side; she reached up a quick hand to draw it over her shoulder.

_Just like we practised._

With fur gone and hair pulled to the side; those gathered in the Cathedral were able to set eyes fully on that which had been the source of so much rumour. They had hoped to gain a glimpse of the old god's rumoured residue on the lady Cousland's body – perhaps a hint of silvered flesh at the neckline of a gown, or a quick peek at a scarred palm – but now it was displayed before them; in all its strange, otherworldly glory. The leather dress dropped to the base of Flora's spine – an inch lower and it would have been inappropriate even for a _Fereldan _Chantry – and left her back entirely exposed to the eyes of Thedas.

Flora could feel the incendiary heat of their stares, the mass rustling of fabric as the audience shifted to get a better look; the barely restrained whispers and fascinated hisses. She knew well enough what they could see – the silver-white markings across her shoulder-blades, one branching arc extending up the column of her neck and the other to the base of her spine. It was remarkable and ironic how alike the branding appeared to the Chantry sunburst – the similarity was remarkable.

_One. Here's the proof, _Flora thought fiercely, in-between counting laboriously to ten. _I survived an Archdemon._

_Two, three, four._

_It tried to take my soul and failed._

_Five, six, eight - no, _seven.

_And I killed it._

_Eight, nine, ten._

_So I dare you to try and take Ferelden from Alistair and I._

After counting to ten, Flora turned on her heel, not quite facing the enthralled congregation; giving them a full profile view of her swollen stomach. The realisation that this was no babe fresh in the womb – that it appeared to be well into its third term – was enough to send a ripple of shock through the crowd.

_That's right, _Flora mused defiantly, resting a hand on the restless baby for emphasis. _Our fierce little creature survived the Archdemon too. Good luck ever trying to ooze – uzle – usurp this one in the future!_

_Ouch, thank you for kicking me in the kidney. Great timing._

Having unleashed both _back_ and _belly_ in quick succession on the reeling audience, Flora now let loose the final weapon in her arsenal. Lifting her chin and letting the dark red mass of hair fall loose about her shoulders, she let a haughty stare sweep across the crowds; discharging the full intensity of her imperious Alamarri beauty, with no cosmetic enhancement save for the painted _kaddis _mark on her cheek.

Pale grey eyes - cold and shifting as the Waking Sea - moved across the spectrum of faces, barely bothering to register livery or emblem.

_I don't care if you're a pirate-prince from Antiva or the Grand Duc of Orlais. Any ill designs on our country can be dashed right now on the hard flagstones of this Chantry. Alistair rules in Ferelden, and I am with him._

Flora let her eyes linger momentarily on her companions, who – as veterans of the Fifth Blight – had been afforded a prime position in a front pew. Wynne was nodding slowly, fully aware of Leliana's instructions; Oghren was unashamedly leering at Flora's bodice-boosted cleavage; Zevran's face was arranged in careful neutrality. The elf clearly had one eye on her and the other on the congregation, and Flora felt a surge of gratitude towards her former Crow for his ever-present watchfulness.

Nearby, she could see Finian trying not to grin – the Orlesian part of her brother adored a good _show – _and at his side stood her Herring father. Pel, who conversely had no time for theatrics, was busy eyeing up the _Grand-Duc's _lavender mask in faint, incredulous disbelief.

The last face that drew Flora's eye before she turned back to her husband-to-be belonged to none other than Loghain Mac Tir. The Warden-Commander of Ferelden – accompanied by his female counterpart – stood to one side dressed in full griffin-augmented regalia. They were accompanied by a gaggle of junior Wardens that Flora did not recognise, and with a small pang she realised that they must have been new recruits.

Loghain caught her gaze for a moment; one greying eyebrow rising. To his credit, there was no bitterness there – although he must have remembered standing within the same Chantry nearly ten years prior when Anora had married Cailan. Instead, the corner of his mouth flickered ruefully – having noted the calculated display of _back, belly, beauty _– and he gave her a grudging little nod.

Finally, Flora turned back to face the Grand Cleric, Alistair and Eamon. She had been so focused on following Leliana's instructions to the letter that she had not yet noticed Alistair's reaction to the leather gown. He was staring as though she had revealed herself to be _naked_ underneath the fur; the pupils in his hazel eyes blown wide with a combination of disbelief and raw desire.

Eamon reached out and took Flora's hand in the same manner as they had rehearsed with Teagan the previous day. She clutched his fingers, letting him guide her up the three shallow steps towards where Alistair was waiting.

The king reached a hand behind him, seamlessly receiving a wolf pelt cloak from a Chantry clerk. Stepping forward, the desire in Alistair's eyes melted into soft, bruised affection as he wrapped the cloak about his mistress' bare shoulders. As he tied the strings loosely across her chest, he leaned forward to murmur in her ear.

"I need a moment to catch my breath, darling. Leliana should have given me some _warning _about that outfit."

Flora smiled up at her best friend, the first time that her grave expression had dissolved since entering the Grand Chantry. He smiled back down at her, and for a moment it was as though they were naught but a stable-boy and a fisherman's daughter plighting their troth in the local chapel.

The Grand Cleric had meanwhile decided that too much time had been spent gazing at the bride and her _dubiously appropriate _attire; clearing her throat.

"_The Maker receives all ye who chose absolution into His arms; represented in corporeal form by this dwelling of stone and wood,"_ she bellowed, indeed compensating for deafness with volume. _"It is the Maker and the Maker alone who grants us redemption for our sins; the Maker and the Maker alone who can offer salvation and eternal peace at His side; the Maker and the Maker alone who can join two souls in sacred union."_

Flora stood before Alistair, head dutifully bowed, gazing thoughtfully at her own feet. Thanks to Leliana's scrutinising eye, even her_ toenails _were clean – something which Flora did not believe had ever happened before. She could feel Alistair's eyes, bright with adoration, boring into the top of her head, and resisted the urge to return his gaze.

_I can't stand around smiling all day. I have to look stern and resolute: Leliana's instructions._

"Now will you confirm your _full _names for the scribe?" the Grand Cleric commanded, drawing a deep breath as she paused in her monologue. "So that it may be writ down in both sacred and secular record."

"Alistair Theirin," replied Alistair immediately, the words emerging with strident resonance.

Flora eyed her former brother-warden, proud at how confidently he had announced a name that he had once spurned. There followed a pause, and she realised that the Grand Cleric had turned expectantly to her.

_Make sure you at least get this part in the right order. Remember: 'fish can't poach rabbits'._

"Florence Chastity Popelyn Ragenhilda," she replied solemnly, then quickly added "Cousland," at the end.

The Grand Cleric nodded ponderously, stretching out her robed arms like a great, ivory-winged bat. Elemena was used to presiding before members of the Landsmeet, but she had never before had the chance to pontificate before such a vast collection of Theodesian notables.

"Florence Cousland, do you come here of your own free will and accord?"

"Yes," replied Flora, impressed by the height of the priestess' lofty hat.

"And who has presented you here with their blessing and offerings?"

"I, Fergus Cousland, Teyrn of Highever," her brother said on cue, raising his voice so that it echoed to the laurel-draped ceiling. "And Highever will offer the house of Theirin a dowry of twenty thousand sovereigns, the northern island of Wickway, quarrying rights in Mentmore, fifty Fereldan steeds and five hundred sheep."

Flora did not dare to look at Alistair for fear that she would burst out laughing. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Zevran in silent contortions in the front pew; his fingers clamped on Finian's elbow. _Five hundred sheep! _the elf was mouthing gleefully to Flora's brother.

"Alistair Theirin, do you accept this nuptial offering?" the Grand Cleric prompted, her beady black eyes settling on the king's face.

"I accept it," replied Alistair gravely, resisting the comedic temptation to demand _more sheep._

"Now," continued Elemena, raising her voice once again and letting the sonorous tones ring about the thick pillars and side-chapels. "The Maker desires those bonded in His purview to pledge their devotion aloud and in the presence of witnesses. Alistair Theirin, speak now your vow."

Alistair took a deep breath to steady himself, his eyes fixated on Flora's face as though welded there by some blacksmith's forge. Flora blinked, staring up at him with sudden, absolute absorption; the rest of the audience suddenly utterly inconsequential. When her best friend spoke, it was as though he were speaking to her and her alone.

"I vow to you the first cut of my meat, the first sip of my wine," he said, soft and resolute. "Yours will be the name I cry out at night, and the eyes I smile into in the morning. I shall be the shield for your back; blood of my blood and bone of my bone. I pledge to you my spirit and my body."

_My sister-warden, my partner in all things. Light of my days, mother of my child. The love of my life._

Flora felt a lump rise in her throat and she swallowed it; the words of Alistair's earnest, heartfelt promise echoing in her chest. He smiled down at her, his hazel gaze warm and certain.

"Florence Cousland," instructed the Grand Cleric, her strident voice echoing to the rafters. "Speak now your vow."

Flora had practised her vow on Leliana eleven times the previous night; the words inscribed in blazing letters on the inside of her skull.

"You cannot possess me, but I give you all which is mine to give," she replied, grateful for the natural evenness of her northern tongue. "You cannot command me, but I shall serve you in the ways you require. And the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hand. I offer myself to you in every way."

_Brother-warden. We were welded together by the events at Ostagar; nothing can break a bond forged in the heat of an Archdemon's flame._

The Grand Cleric waved her wrinkled hand imperiously to one side, gesturing for Eamon to step forwards. The arl did as instructed, lifting his palm to reveal a glint of gold.

"Alistair Theirin, if it is your wish, take the ring and place it on the finger of this woman."

Alistair reached out, choosing the smaller of the two rings from his uncle's outstretched palm. Flora let him take her hand; his blazing eyes not leaving her face.

"Maker knows it's my wish," he murmured, sliding the ring onto the fourth finger of Flora's left hand. "My greatest desire."

Flora looked down at the ring, her breath catching suddenly in her throat. It was forged from old Fereldan gold – the same as her own Cousland band – and made up of two twisted strands; weaving harmoniously about each other. A quick glance confirmed that Alistair's band was the same, albeit on a larger scale.

_It looks like a rope, _she realised, suddenly. _It's meant to be the fish-rope. How did they know– oh, of course._

_Teagan organised the rings. If anyone was going to arrange this, it would be him. He's known us the longest out of any noble here._

Gently removing _Mairyn's Star _from its temporary relocation on her other hand, Alistair pushed it gently atop the twisted golden rope of the wedding band; a sudden, bright gleam in his eye. Flora gazed up at her best friend, wishing suddenly that she could put her arms around his neck.

"Florence Cousland, if it is your wish," continued the Grand Cleric, portentously. "Take the ring and put it on the finger of this man."

Flora dutifully plucked up the larger ring, running her thumb over the burnished metal. From the front pew, she could hear the sound of damp sniffling, and wondered idly who it could belong to.

_Maybe Wynne?_

"It is my wish," she replied confidently, reaching out to take Alistair's large, warm hand. The king still practised for two hours with blade and shield every day; but now Flora was unable to heal the calluses left in the wake of the cloth-bound grips.

She could feel a faint tremor in her best friend's hand as she held it; Alistair was clearly trying his hardest not to let his emotions show before their audience of hundreds. Flora gave his wrist a little, surreptitious squeeze, before sliding the ring onto his fourth finger.

Alistair stared down at the marriage band sitting bright and burnished below his knuckle, then reached up unprompted to cup her cheek in his palm, a thumb gently tracing the dried mark of the _kaddis._

"Sweetheart."

The Grand Cleric cleared her throat pointedly, nostrils flaring, the leather strap already gripped in her lined hands. Flora reached up to slide her fingers through Alistair's own, linking them together in the familiar _fish-rope; _incorporating their own private ritual in the midst of Fereldan tradition.

The priestess began to wind the leather strap around their conjoined hands, reciting the old verse from the Chant with sonorous solemnity.

"_And the Maker smiled down upon His Bride and said Now let us never be parted. Sit at my side in the Black City and know eternal happiness.'_

Elemena stepped back to display her work, showing the congregation the leather-bound hands of king and former mistress. Taking a deep breath, aware that every word was being recorded for posterity, she projected her declaration up to the vaulted ceiling.

"_With the blessing of the Maker, I name you man and wife!"_

The nobles of Ferelden and the Marches – who shared many ancient customs – began to drum their feet against the floor, a thunderous roll of leather boot against basalt flagstone. This wordless salute lasted until the leather strap had been unwrapped from the hands of both parties; then abruptly ended as the Grand Cleric raised her arms once again.

Flora could see a discernible gleam on Alistair's cheek as he gazed damply down at her, a single tear having made a break for freedom. She reached up in a parallel of his own gesture, using a gentle thumb to brush his cheek dry. The baby, having slept through the vows and ring-exchange that made it _legitimate,_ woke up and stretched its limbs; pressing against the confines of her belly.

"Alistair Theirin," announced the Grand Cleric, stepping back hastily to get out of the way. "You may _greet_ your wife."

This was the part of the ceremony that needed no rehearsal. Alistair stepped forwards, one hand spreading across the small of Flora's naked back as he drew her towards him. She tilted her face upwards with the smooth ease of familiarity; the two coming together with a much-practised rhythm. Ducking his head and leaning down to close the foot difference in height, Alistair pressed his mouth to hers, lips parting with an involuntarily surge of desire. His tongue slid brief and tantalising against her own, the need palpable.

Feeling a pulse of inappropriate lust deep in her belly, Flora was half-tempted to put her arms about his neck. Just in time, she remembered the location and audience; Alistair came to a simultaneous realisation, and withdrew with obvious reluctance.

_More, _his languid hazel gaze promised as his palm lingered on the small of her back, fingers brushing the bare skin. _Later._

The Grand Cleric swept forwards – eager to reclaim centre-stage - and this time she was not alone. By the time that Alistair had reluctantly released Flora from his grip, Ferelden's most esteemed priestess had been joined at the altar by the nation's most eminent nobles. Fergus, as the sole remaining teyrn, was joined by the arls of Redcliffe, Amaranthine, South Reach, the West Hills and Edgehall. These men would represent the Landsmeet during the upcoming proceedings. Each one was clad in the full regalia afforded by their station, faces grave and purposeful.

The nature of the ceremony took on a distinctly different tone. Now that the marriage had been legalised and recognised, it remained only for the king and his new queen to be formally crowned.

"The Maker, in His infinite wisdom, desires for His creations to be steered in their mortal lives by a ruler both just and wise," intoned Elemena, her eyes raised to the lofty ceiling. "The throne of Ferelden currently lies empty. Who, men of the Landsmeet, do you desire to take up this position of great responsibility?"

Fergus stepped forwards, eyes moving affectionately over his sister before focusing themselves on the man at her side.

"The lords of the north desire Alistair, son of Maric, as king of this nation," he replied, the words emerging clear and sonorous.

Leonas Bryland was the next to step forward, clearing his throat before responding.

"The lords of the east desire Alistair, son of Maric, as king of this nation."

As the general withdrew, Flora shot a surreptitious glance sideways at her once brother-warden; now _husband_. Alistair was gazing straight ahead, chin raised and naught but steady confidence could be found in his face. Self-assurance – boosted by the golden ring he now proudly wore on his fourth finger – radiated from him like an over-fuelled hearth. It was accompanied by a distinct tinge of impatience, and not because Maric's youngest son was ill-at-ease with the formalities of the ceremony.

Alistair Theirin had long since accepted that he was king of Ferelden, had _ruled_ as king since the end of the Blight, and was fully aware that this coronation was more for the audience than it was for any practical purpose.

"The lords of the south desire Alistair, son of Maric, as king of this nation."

Eamon returned to his position, head bowed respectfully. The Arl of the Western Hills, who had been one of the first nobles to join their cause at Radcliffe Castle, strode forward with an equally purposeful expression.

"The lords of the west desire Alistair, son of Maric, as king of this nation."

There followed a long drumroll from a single drummer, intended to represent the assent of the voiceless freemen of Ferelden. The Grand Cleric turned with an imperious expression to Alistair; the old priestess clearly revelling in the attention.

"Alistair Theirin, do you accept the nominations of the Landsmeet?"

"I accept them," Alistair replied without a beat of hesitation, his voice strong and confident.

"Do you accept the mantle of kingship?"

"I accept it."

The Grand Cleric raised her arms once more, the ivory silk sleeves of her robe hanging down like great wings. Inch by inch, she rotated on the spot until she was facing the eternal flame and statue of Andraste. The Maker's Bride loomed at the back of the transept, thirty feet tall and wholly unamused; her sightless basalt eyes staring out over the heads of the congregation.

"Those who rest upon the throne of Ferelden must show due deference to Our Lady and submit themselves to the Maker's Will. Do so now."

Alistair shot a quick glance at Flora, who was gazing ahead with the usual ambiguous neutrality. This was the part of the ceremony that he had been most unhappy with – but it was an essential part of the coronation ritual, and its omission was unthinkable.

Turning as a pair, Theirin and Cousland turned to face the great, stern statue of Andraste. Together, they sunk down onto their knees on the cold basalt; bowing until their foreheads touched the stone.

Bent uncomfortably over her swollen stomach, Flora gritted her teeth and hoped that she wasn't going _too _crimson as the blood rushed to her head. The Chantry chill teased up the soft, downy hairs on the backs of her arms, and she could feel her strapped knee giving a petulant throb of protest at such artificial contortion. The only pleasure Flora could find in the whole display was that she had managed to manoeuvre her hair to one side as she knelt; revealing her Archdemon-branded back once more to the congregation. As before, a ripple of fascination ran through the audience and she heard the rustling of expensive clothing as many shifted to afford themselves a better view.

_I hope Leliana is proud of all this._

Flora was aware of Alistair peering sideways at her, the corners of his mouth pulled unhappily taut. He had not wanted her to kneel on the cold basalt tiles, but it was an inexorable requirement of the ceremony.

"Having shown due reverence to our Maker and His Bride, _you may rise,"_ intoned the Grand Cleric, growing more mystical and exaggerated in mannerism by the moment.

Alistair immediately reached out to grip his new wife's left arm, while Fergus stepped forward to reach for her right. Together, husband and brother aided Flora to her feet; while, Flora thought privately that she could have managed adequately enough on her own.

_Though, to be fair, it would have been far less elegant._

Just as they had rehearsed the previous day, both he and she turned together to face the congregation as another slow and steady drumbeat arose from the back of the cathedral. This hollow rhythm was soon joined by a second and a third, and then more chimed in until a single, thunderous pulse emanated up to the vaulted ceiling like the heartbeat of a slumbering Titan.

Flora extended her hand blindly to the side, and felt the cool, metal length of the _sceptre_ being placed into her palm; Eamon's shadow falling across the flagstones. It was heavier than the stick that they had practised with, and she felt the muscles in her forearm tauten. At her side, Leonas passed Alistair the Orb of Fionne, a black onyx sphere caught in a delicate golden filigree web and crested with a Chantry symbol.

With the seamless, fluent synchrony of a pair who had rarely been further than an arms' length apart for the past year; the sceptre and Fionne's orb were exchanged with barely a mutual glance. Alistair was staring straight ahead, trying not to glare directly into the masked visage of _Grand-Duc _Gaspard – whom the king still resented for his ill-advised marriage proposition to Flora several weeks prior.

Flora let her gaze settle on her fisherman-father; suddenly desiring the familiarity of _Herring _amidst all the formality and ritualistic splendour. True to form, Pel was barely sparing her and Alistair a glance – instead, he was gaping with incredulity and suspicion at the rainbow silk ensembles of the Orlesian contingent.

In contrast to the unimpressed fisherman, the majority of the congregation were gazing avidly at the pair standing at the nave of the Grand Chantry. Each guest there was aware of the unconventional background of both figures; yet it was hard to reconcile this awareness with the smooth self-assurance on display at the front of the church.

Alistair Theirin, bearing an uncanny likeness to his father, took the sword from his bride with fluid ease; the honed muscle of a warrior's body clearly apparent behind the form-fitting leather of his garb. Likewise, his new wife had commandeered the attention of the congregation the moment that she had unveiled herself at the front of the Chantry, deploying the well-honed edge of her traditional beauty in conjunction with the roundedness of her belly and the branding of the Archdemon's soul upon her body. The sword had been long and weighty; she had needed two hands to lift the blade while Alistair took it with a single arm. He gave her the caged wren in return, she clutched the handle of the cage without blinking; neither of them needing to look at the other to know what their partner was doing.

The Grand Cleric moved behind them, her arms extending once more as she turned her face upwards to the bright glass window above the rear doors. This final part of the ceremony had been impeccably timed to coincide with the gradual cresting of the sun over the Chantry towers. The drumbeat stopped abruptly, its final echoing vestige reverberating between the thick line of pillars that flanked the pews.

A lay-brother, his chest swelled with importance, approached the elderly priestess with the _coronal of Calenhad _and _Mairyn's circlet _resting atop a crimson cushion. These traditional crowns were used only during the coronation of newly appointed Fereldan monarchs, their golden filigree glinting in defiance of the Chantry gloom.

Simultaneously, Leliana stepped forward, her own moment of prominence finally arriving. She took a deep breath - filling her lungs with damp air - then began to sing one of the oldest hymns in the Chantry songbook. It was an ode of praise and reverence to the Maker, beautiful and melancholy; each word imbued with solemn purpose as it emerged from the bard's throat. Her soprano voice, clear and high, rose to the vaulted ceiling without need for artificial augmentation.

The sung notes flew like birds released from a cage, haunting and ethereal. The Grand Cleric lifted first the larger crown; a band of spiked gold crested with an onyx the size of a hen's-egg. Alistair gazed straight ahead, his hazel eyes still and utterly focused, as the coronal of Calanhad was lowered onto his brow. The coronation crown was weightier than the golden band he customarily wore, yet his head remained unbowed.

While Alistair gazed out above the heads of the audience, Flora let her pale, clear-water stare sweep over the assembled faces last time; cool and contemplative. Behind her, the Grand Cleric took Mairyn's circlet – a stepped tiara of gold and silverite – from the proffered velvet cushion, raising it high into the air before placing it atop Flora's head.

Flora felt the weight of the metal rest heavily against her ears and lifted her chin a fraction to compensate. Her eyes settled on the grey- bearded face of her Herring-father, who was staring up at her with a mix of pride and sadness.

_Papa._

Leliana finished her verse and stepped back into the ranks of lay-sisters; Eamon striding forward to take her place with a triumphant note in his voice.

"_It is acknowledged and anointed,"_ he began, the words emerging with strident resonance. _"With the Maker's blessing, I present to you: King Alistair Theirin, first of his name, and Florence of Highever, Queen of Ferelden."_

Alistair, perfectly on cue, raised the sword with a strong warrior's arm. The Landsmeet led the roar of approval that followed; quickly joined by Oghren and the rest of the companions. The congregation rose _en masse _to their feet, palms colliding in a thunderous cannonade of recognition. Scattered cries of _Theirin! Theirin! _and _Cousland! _rose up from amidst the applause.

_Oh no, _Flora thought, gloomily. _Do I have a new family name now? It took me six months to learn how to spell Cousland. I still can't write Theirin properly._

The drumroll began once more as Alistair lowered the sword, handing it off to a carefully studious lay-brother. The king turned to his new queen and peered at her, a thread of anxiety running through his hazel stare that was visible only to Flora.

_I know you never wanted all this. I'm sorry._

Flora blinked back at him, the corner of her mouth flickering upwards in the shy, private smile that she usually reserved for when they were alone.

_Don't be sorry. I'm happy to be your wife and I'm ready to be your queen._

He offered her his arm and she gripped it, letting her fingers curl into the leather of his sleeve. The congregation were still clapping; the raucous din of their applause blending into the thunderous roll of the drums. As one, they descended the three shallow steps that led down to the main aisle. The audience turned to follow the progress of king and queen as they traversed between the pews, arm in arm and with matching furs draped around their shoulders.

"At least that part is over," Alistair murmured under his breath as they passed a pew full of Marchers. "I lifted the sword at the right time."

"And I didn't drop the bird," Flora replied, gazing down at her fingers as they curled against Alistair's sleeve. _Mairyn's Star, _plump and glossy, sat proudly atop the woven strands of gold that made up the wedding band.

A rumble of laughter sounded from within Alistair's throat and he squeezed her fingers affectionately.

"I think we both did Ferelden proud. Oh, and nice _outfit_, baby. Can we go and consummate our marriage now? I'm _extremely_ up for it after seeing you dressed like that."

Flora bit back a cackle, shooting a little sideways glance at her new husband as they approached the sealed rear doorway.

"We have a seven hour feast to get through first," she replied, infusing her reply with solemnity. "And speeches. And then the Grand Cleric has to bless our _marital bed_ before we get in it."

"Maker's Breath! You really _were _listening to Leliana's instructions, weren't you?"

"Mm!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol longest chapter ever? 
> 
> It's like a Thedas who's who at the wedding! Spot the DA:2 and DA:I cameos! Hehehe. I'm writing the bit where they get formally introduced at the feast atm, it's fun to have Flo and Alistair meet the likes of Sebastian and the Vaels, the Pentaghasts, etc etc…
> 
> So there can't be a royal wedding without a DOWRY attached! Even in the aftermath of a Blight, tradition has to be upheld – and dowries were pretty standard for any marriage in Medieval times. When two children from important dynasties were wed, the dowries were pretty hefty. When Catherine of Aragon married Arthur (Henry VIII's older brother, who died shortly after their wedding), her dowry was 200,000 escudos! Obviously I just made up the details of the dowry for Flo, but I thought it'd be fun to include. The entire wedding ceremony and traditions are also just pure headcanon, I tried to make it a mix of Medieval Catholic and Celtic ritual (plus a big dose of IMAGINATION haha). The wedding vows are based on old Celtic vows (probably not authentic ones, lol).
> 
> Incidentally, Flora wouldn't be expected to actually use Alistair's last name despite joining his family– kings and queens rarely used their surnames anyway! The Tudors were the first dynasty in England to really do so!


	56. The Newlywed Royals

The newly crowned king and queen of Ferelden paused before the great wooden doors at the rear of the Grand Chantry. These led out atop the high steps that descended into the Square of the Bride; where thousands of Denerim's cityfolk had now flocked to catch a glimpse of their newly anointed king and queen. Flora could almost _sense _the great mass of people swelling on the other side of the wood, and shot a quick glance sideways towards Alistair.

Alistair gazed back down at her, more used to wearing the heavy crown atop his brow than she. With a gentleness that belied the strength inherent in his muscular frame, he reached out and adjusted the angle of the golden diadem as it rested amidst the cloud of dark red hair. That being done, Alistair dropped his hand to her cheek; stroking the angle of the high bone with his thumb.

"My precious girl," he breathed, candlelight catching the sudden gleam of tears. "Despite all this… _fuss_, I swear I'm the happiest man in Thedas right now. My own sweet wife."

Flora reached up to cover his hand with her own palm, twining their fingers together in the ritual that had inspired the design of the wedding rings.

"I love you," she replied solemnly, and her northerner's lack of eloquence did not diminish the earnestness of the words.

Eamon and Fergus had manifested at their sides, Chancellor and teyrn having followed them at a respectful distance up the aisle.

"Ready to face the crowds?" Fergus asked in an undertone as two soldiers stepped forward to open the doors. "I believe half the city have come out to see you."

Alistair glanced down at Flora, who looked supremely unconcerned.

"Well, we've faced more intimidating things, haven't we, darling?"

"Yes," replied his new wife. "Like me facing down this _dress _this morning_. _You know it's _sewn_ onto me?"

He laughed, giving her hand a hard, affectionate squeeze.

The soldiers pushed open the doors, and the sun spilled into the porch of the Grand Chantry, dust motes dancing in columns of mellow light. The breaking of sanctuary officially indicated the ending of the ceremony, and the congregation broke into excited chatter behind them; a variety of tongues melding together into a tangled polyglot that echoed to the laurel-draped, vaulted ceiling.

Yet this could not compare to the wall of sound that rolled forwards from the crowds below. The Square of the Bride was full of faces, packed with as many people as the wide expanse could contain. Only a channel through the centre remained clear, lined with shoulder-to-shoulder soldiers. Many of those present held aloft sticks decorated with crimson ribbon; waving them back and forth like a vast bank of seaweed. The roar that rose up when their crowned Theirin and his new queen emerged at the top of the high steps was almost physical in its force; a great storm-surge of sound that broke against the stone face of the Grand Chantry like waves against Herring's Hag's Teeth reef.

"Maker's Breath," muttered Fergus, his eyebrows shooting into his hairline. "I'd wager there's nobody left in the taverns."

Alistair squeezed Flora's fingers, feeling her return the pressure immediately. Having been faced with crowds whenever he had ventured out of the palace for the past month, he had grown somewhat used to them.

"Is this alright, darling?" he murmured, rubbing his thumb over each of her knuckles in turn.

"Mm," replied the stoic Flora, who was relatively sure that this crowd was no larger than the army she had addressed on the day of the final battle.

"Shall we close the door, my lord?" enquired the bolder of the two soldiers standing in the Chantry entrance.

"Leave them open," instructed Eamon, then added a quick aside to Fergus. "Let our guests hear just how _loudly _Ferelden values their king and queen."

With Flora's fingers still tightly anchored in his own, Alistair stepped forwards, halting at the low basalt wall. The volume of the crowd escalated as they gained a clearer view of their Theirin and his bride. The sight of Flora in her Alamarri garb, full-bellied and bare-shouldered with her hair in an untamed fall of oxblood, met with intense vocal approval – the folk of Denerim were inordinately proud of their ancestral heritage, and recognised immediately the style of her dress.

Alistair raised one hand to acknowledge the cheers, the sunlight glinting from the spiked golden crown atop his head. The other went to cradle the rounded swell of Flora's stomach, proud and possessive. The king's symbolic claim of a babe that would now be born a _legitimate Theirin heir_ pleased the crowds beyond measure; the crimson ribbons waved with a new ferocity.

"Give her a kiss," hissed a new voice from behind them. Clearly, Finian did not want to miss an opportunity to make an appearance before the crowds. "That's what they're all waiting for."

Alistair glanced down at Flora, seeking silent permission for such a public display of affection. In place of a reply, she reached up and cradled his bearded cheek in the white-scarred palm of her hand. He smiled back at her and duly bowed his head, pressing his lips tenderly against her own.

Finian had been right: according to the roar of noise that followed, this was _exactly _what the crowds had been waiting for. Alistair couldn't stop himself from grinning incredulously as he withdrew, one arm still wrapped protectively about Flora's naked back.

"My love," he said, and then trailed off, lost for words.

_This is the strangest day of my life, _Flora thought even as she smiled up at Alistair. _A year ago I was the most useless apprentice in the Circle; getting thrown out of class for being unable to light a candle and sneaking up to the roof to try and glimpse the sea. They called me the 'Vase' – pretty to look at, but containing nothing of value._

The cheering did not abate even when they descended the steps into the vast courtyard; Alistair still keeping a tight and protective grip on his new wife's hand. The soldiers of the Royal Army kept a careful watch on the people swelling in the Square, their pikes held out to keep the eager citizens at bay as they pushed forwards for a closer glimpse.

The horses were led out from the nearby Templar stables by carefully solemn-faced initiates; their external discipline not betraying the fierce competition that had resulted in their selection for such an important role. The proudest boy led a large, muscular bay mare to the king himself, the reins clutched in a trembling hand. The stable lads had been instructed to keep their eyes respectfully downcast, yet several could not help staring at Flora's Alamarri garb. The soft leather clung to the curves of her body, revealing far more flesh than was customary for a modern gown.

The king stroked the bay mare's neck, scratching it behind the ears with a familiarity honed during years of working in the Redcliffe stables. This was the same horse which had carried them unfalteringly along the crumbling city wall with the Archdemon in heated pursuit; she was far more passive and placid than her bulky appearance suggested.

Satisfied that the mare was not disconcerted by the cheering crowds, the king gripped his new queen gently about the waist and lifted her up onto the front of the saddle. Flora shifted into a more comfortable position against the pommel, feeling Alistair swing himself easily up behind her. One hand reached forward to take the reins, his other arm curling protectively about her belly.

"Ready, sweetheart?"

"Mm, I'm hungry."

* * *

The ride back up to the palace took nearly an hour - twice as long as it would have taken for a lone horseman. The speed of the procession was hampered by the crowds and their obvious delight at seeing the wedding party; and the reluctance of Alistair to ride at anything quicker than a leisurely amble.

Crimson ribbons tied to sticks were waved frantically, seashells were tossed onto the dusty thoroughfare before the slowly advancing horses, and flower wreaths hung onto the pikes of the carefully neutral-faced soldiers that lined the route. The cheering continued unabated, along with scattered cries of _Theirin! _and _Cousland! _The sun beamed down benevolently on the riders, the procession trailing back for nearly a mile as the other attendees in the Grand Chantry mounted their own horses. The people of Denerim gazed with unbridled fascination – and a hint of misgiving – at the brightly dressed foreigners, wondering at the oiled beards of the Antivans and the silken masks of the Orlesians.

Bringing up the rear were Loghain Mac Tir and Leonie Caron, the joint leaders of the Fereldan Wardens, accompanied by a select handful of new recruits. The brightly polished griffins emblazoned on their breastplates flashed in the sunlight; the distinctive silver and navy stripe of their tunics distinguishing them from the other guests. For the first time since his fall from grace, Loghain was not met with a chorus of jeers and booing. Instead, the people gazed at him with faintly suspicious eyes. The residual anger at the former general's betrayal was somewhat assuaged by his futile attempt to stay the Archdemon, which had scarred his face and cost him his leg. Rumours had also emerged in recent weeks that Loghain had once defended the lady Cousland against an ill-intentioned _maleficar. _Although the people were uncertain of the _veracity_ of such a statement; it was clear that Flora herself no longer bore the general any significant ill will.

Meanwhile at the forefront of the procession, Flora was busy rubbing each of Alistair's knuckles in turn, her fingers tracing firm little circles on the back of his hand as it rested lightly on her stomach. Despite the height of the mare, which stood a full seventeen hands above the dirt and cobblestones, she felt secure and unassailable against her best friend's chest.

When passing through the public parts of the city, Alistair had put on the expected show – lifting his hand in acknowledgement of the crowds, grinning at their vocal enthusiasm. Now that they had reached the noble district, the streets were far quieter. The residents had attended the service at the Grand Chantry – and the guard were no longer needed to line the route.

Taking full advantage of the brief lull in activity, the king had parted Flora's thick fall of hair; nudging the dark red locks over her shoulder so that he could caress the back of her neck with his lips. His mouth meandered over her bare shoulder-blades, planting a series of kisses that alternated between desirous and affectionate.

"I can't believe I have to wait until tonight to bed you," Alistair murmured in her ear, a vein of frustration running through the words. "If we'd been married in a little chapel with just our friends in attendance, I could have _had_ you in the nearest tavern within _minutes _of the ceremony ending."

Flora laughed, wondering idly how dirty the soles of her feet were after walking around shoeless all day. She wound her fingers more tightly in Alistair's, tilting her head back against his shoulder.

"But then you wouldn't have been able to put on this… this _show _for the Orlesians," she reminded him, reasonably. "The point of all this fuss was to show them the strength of Ferelden's king."

Alistair let out a little grunt of acknowledgement, barely needing to steer the horse's head as it plodded instinctively towards the Royal hunting grounds.

"Still," he murmured, as the sawn-off forest of tree-stumps came into view; the formidable grey fortress of the palace looming at the top of the hill. "I'm definitely going to have words with Leliana. It's tantamount to _cruelty _to put you in an outfit like that, then make you sit chastely next to me for the rest of the day. It's _torture."_

Flora snorted at his dramatics, shielding her eyes against the sun as they turned onto the final approach leading to the palace.

  
  
Chapter 59: The Departure Of Pel  
End Notes:

OOC Author Note: OK I definitely want to bring back the archaic word STRIDDEN (another word for strode), lol. Flo still talks to herself in her head, an old habit from when her spirits used to respond to her.

  
  


Once the Royal Procession arrived on the gravel forecourt before the imposing basalt façade of the Palace, Guillaume came out to greet them. He bowed very low, a smile curling upwards to meet the ends of his oiled moustache.

"Congratulations, your majesties," he murmured, watching Alistair bound expertly from the saddle and then immediately turn to reach up for his new queen. "I heard that the ceremony went _impeccably,_ and that all in attendance were much impressed."

"News travels fast," commented the king with eyebrows raised, lifting Flora down from the saddle. Recalling that her feet were bare, he refrained from lowering her to the gravel; instead keeping her suspended in his arms. "Leliana?"

"Aye," confirmed the chief steward, as the others dismounted in a flurry of excitable chatter; the lay sister herself arriving soon after on her grey mare. "Her raven left the Grand Chantry before you did. I'm at a loss as to how she manages it, but it's rather impressive."

Leliana slid down from the saddle with the skill of a consummate horsewoman. Somehow, she had also changed from her lay-sister garb; a silver Chantry amulet rested on a peach silk gown edged with bronze lace. Her face was alight with adrenaline, the excitement making her seem a decade younger as she strode across the gravel towards both former Wardens.

"_Félicitations, mes amis," _she declared, kissing first Alistair and then Flora on both cheeks. "I admit, I was rather worried after the rehearsal yesterday – especially after you _ate _the replica Orb of Fionne, Flora – but you both were sheer perfection. I could not have asked for a better performance."

Flora smiled, delighted as her companions rode up to join them alongside other members of the Landsmeet. Oghren, who was astride a long-suffering stocky pony, dismounted with a loud crunch of gravel and let out a roar of congratulations.

"What's next, eh? At dwarven weddings, the bride and groom both get dunked in a vast vat of ale, which they then got to _drink_ their way out of."

"Certainly not _that," _the bard hissed in response, unable to hide how appalled she was at the very _notion_. "No, this is how events will proceed- "

Leliana went on to explain the next stage of the celebrations. The afternoon and evening would be dominated by a great feast; interspersed with musical performances, dancing, speeches and even a short pageant demonstrating Ferelden's victory over the Fifth Blight. The entire event would be fuelled by vast quantities of alcohol – barrels of honey mead larger than Qunari had been dusted off and brought up from the cellar, accompanied by hundreds of bottles from every corner of Thedas. Antivan port strained the wine-racks, alongside Orlesian brandy, Marcher ale and even a rare, extremely potent fire-whiskey from Rivain. The first part of the feast would see the guests all seated within the great hall, whereby Flora and Alistair would then enter and take their seats at the highest table. The more notable guests and foreign dignitaries would then file past for a formal introduction, simultaneously offering their congratulations.

Flora was only half-listening to the bard. The most stressful part of the day was over – the ritualistic ceremony in the Grand Chantry – and as far as she was concerned, as long as she managed not to spill soup down her front, the rest of the day would be a success.

Instead, she was craning her neck in an effort to try and see her Herring-father. Zevran, who had ridden up alongside Fergus, was chatting idly to the teyrn; disguising the dull ache in his heart by making a surfeit of jokes and witty remarks. Nearby, Eamon, Teagan and Leonas Bryland conferred in low voices, agreeing that the coronation itself – and Flora's Alamarri-inspired appearance – had been a definite success.

Yet there was no sign of Pel, and Flora felt her brow crease in confusion. This crease only deepened as she and Alistair were guided inside the Royal Palace; where they were greeted by the entire assembled castle staff – over a hundred in total. The gathered servants gave a lusty round of applause, pleased that the Royal baby would no longer have the shadow of bastardy looming over its small head. A legitimate Theirin heir meant stability and security; both for the future of their nation, and for their own employment within the castle.

Leliana guided Alistair and Flora quickly away from the public areas of the palace, aware that the guests would soon start to arrive. She led them down a narrow, well-appointed corridor and past a series of realistic Mabari hunting tapestries, finally leaving them alone in a small receiving chamber. The room contained a hearth, couch, candelabra and little else; the noise from the adjacent great hall filtering through the party wall.

Alistair eyed the couch with an appraising view, wondering if he could quickly consummate his marriage against the stuffed cushions and have a practice round with his wife without the unwanted audience. If Flora had not been distracted, a similar thought would have occurred to her – in fact, she would have already have bent herself over the arm of the couch, pulling her skirts impatiently to the side. However, Flora was anxious over the odd absence of her Herring-dad, who she had last seen seated beside Finian in the Grand Chantry.

The thought was soon driven from her mind as Alistair ran greedy hands over leather and bare skin; cupping her part-covered breasts in his palms with a low moan of desire. He had just tugged the bodice low enough to reveal her nipple when they heard footsteps and familiar voices in the corridor outside. Alistair let out a throaty grunt of frustration, unable to stop himself from flicking the tip of his tongue over the little pink peak before reluctantly tautening the bodice strings.

Moments later Finian entered with a slightly odd expression on his face; reaching up to run a nervous hand through his autumnal curls. The movement dislodged the thin golden arl's circlet, and he moved it back into place with an impatient grunt.

"Flossie, petal?"

Alistair shot a quick sideways glance at his former sister-warden, whose brow was furrowed in consternation.

"What's wrong?" she breathed back in response, knowing instinctively that all was not well. "Tell me."

Finian came to an abrupt halt, grimacing without meaning to; aware that he was about to be the bearer of bad news.

"I've tried to persuade him to stay," he began, velvet-clad shoulders rising in a helpless shrug. "Zev is trying to delay him right now. I'm sorry."

Alistair looked vaguely confused, head swivelling between the two Cousland siblings. Flora - who knew exactly what her brother was talking about - felt her stomach plummet, a sudden, sharp curl of nausea snaking its way through her belly.

"My dad's leaving," she said in a small voice, barely registering Finian's nod of confirmation. "Isn't he?"

Alistair's jaw dropped and he gave a quick, disbelieving shake of the head.

"No, Lo, that can't be right," he replied, immediately. "Why would he leave _today _of all days?

But Flora did not stay to offer any response. With a rustle of leather she had stridden off down the corridor; bare feet making hasty progress against the cool stone tiles. Alistair and Finian exchanged a quick glance, then followed rapidly in her wake.

As she retracted their route down the corridor, Flora fought to suppress the nausea that rose with every step. These were servants' passages, mostly deserted since the majority of the castle was assisting with preparations for the feast. Occasionally, a dwarven steward or human maid would flatten themselves against the wall with a squeak of surprise, before quickly dropping into startled bows.

Questions kept breaking on the surface of Flora's mind like loose fragments of fishing net; she unsuccessfully tried to submerge them again.

_You knew he wouldn't stay forever. He's already missed most of the summer fishing season. He has to go back to Herring._

_But I'm not ready for him to leave._

_You'll never be ready._

Flora inhaled unsteadily, pushing her way through a door and emerging, squinting, into bright sunlight. Knowing that her father would not want to use the main road leading up to the palace – not with the last few wedding guests still making their way in – she had headed instead for the back courtyard. This led to the palace's more discreet rear exit route through the apple orchard; the one that she had once taken with Riordan, Sten and Oghren.

Her hunch had paid off: her Herring-father stood in the middle of the gravel courtyard, a battered leather pack slung over one shoulder and his fishing rod resting against the other. His eyes were narrowed against the early-afternoon sun, a dubious expression on his face as he gazed at the slender elf stood before him. Zevran was clearly exercising his full powers of persuasion; yet all the Antivan charm and guile in the world could not wear down a northerner's obstinacy.

"Pa?"

It was a single word containing a book's worth of questions, the hurt raw and exposed as a fresh abrasion on the skin.

Pel raised his dark gaze over the elf's shoulder; a resigned expression setting over his lattice-wrinkled face. His mouth tautened behind the full, grey beard and he lifted his chin to silently greet his adopted daughter.

"_Lo siento, mi florita," _murmured Zevran as he stepped back with head bowed. "I tried my best to change his mind."

Flora stopped abruptly on the gravel a yard away from her fisherman-father, barely noticing the throbbing of her bare feet. The baby stretched sleepily against the confines of her stomach, and she ignored it.

"Papa," Flora repeated, her eloquence deserting her. Her thoughts were squirming like oiled fish in a bucket; she could not grasp one to enunciate it clearly.

"You've a husband now," muttered Pel, jerking his head towards where Alistair stood at Zevran's side, his face drawn and unhappy. "Don't need me to stay."

"But I _do_ need you," Flora whispered, feeling the tears rising unprompted to her eyelashes. "You can't leave me here."

_You're my Herring, _the plea continued, unspoken but clear. _You can't take that away from me._

"What can I offer you to stay, ser?" the king asked, without much hope. Flora had learnt her stubbornness from her Herring-father, and Pel's obstinacy was honed over five decades. "Name anything, and it's yours. As much as it's in my power to give."

"I need t' get back t'north coast," muttered the fisherman, as Flora inhaled unsteadily. "Got to reinforce the tide-break barrier before summer storms set in. The beacon on t'Hag's Teeth needs repairin'."

Without warning Flora dropped to her knees before him on the gravel, Mairyn's circlet slipping sideways in her mass of hair.

"Please- " she wailed, as a horrified Alistair reached down to her. "You can't! You can't _go- "_

"_Flora Cove!"_

The voice emerging from the fisherman's tangled beard was as sharp as the Teeth themselves. Flora's head shot up reflexively; this was a tone that she was familiar with from her childhood.

"I didn't raise yeh to fall about _weepin'," _Pel continued, harshly. "I raised a lass who gets a job done. You got a _new_ job to do, here- "

He waved a vague, weather-beaten hand that somehow encompassed crown, castle and throne; shooting her a stern look.

"So get on wi' it and stop this _blubberin'_. You're a _Herring _lassie, ain't yeh?"

Flora stared numbly down at her own bitten-nailed fingers as they curled into the gravel; the plump white jewel of _Mairyn's Star _catching her eye as it sat above the twisted golden loop of the wedding band.

_There'd be no pearl at all without the grit at its heart, _she repeated to herself, recalling her thoughts from the ride to the Chantry._ If you scratch away the fancy layers of finery, it's still just a speck of dirt._

She took a deep breath, drawing from the sandy grit at the centre of her soul; summoning every inch of the northern stoicism that had been embedded in her over the course of ten years. The tears arrested themselves on her eyelashes and she blinked them back, determinedly.

_No matter how much they dress me up and call me majesty; I'll still have Herring sitting like a layer of silt in my heart. It won't ever leave me._

Pel squinted down at his adopted daughter, his suspicious stare searching her face. A white-faced Flora gazed solemnly back at him; faint tear marks on her cheeks the only trace of her distress. The next moment, she had taken Alistair's anxiously extended hand, heaving herself to her bare feet with a little grunt of effort.

"Sorry, pa."

"S'alright, lass," he mumbled, shouldering his pack before nudging his thumb brief and affectionate against Flora's damp cheek. "Don't chase after me, now."

With one more glance up at the imposing heights of the Royal Palace, Pel cleared his throat; directing his final words to both Alistair and Finian.

"Look after my girl, eh?"

The old fisherman turned abruptly, setting one foot before the other as he made his way across the gravel towards the apple orchard. Flora stood motionless, barely registering the blood trickling from her grazed knees; her eyes not leaving the broad-shouldered figure until he had disappeared between the trees and vanished from view.

She hung her head for a brief moment, then took a deep breath and lifted her chin. Reaching up, Flora adjusted the angle of the golden diadem on her head until it sat proud and straight once again.

"Sweetheart," breathed Alistair, his eyes bruised with concern. "I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry, my love."

"I _knew_ he wouldn't come to the feast," Flora said, in a small and dejected voice. "I knew he wouldn't sit next to all those… _fancified people. _I just didn't think that he would- he would _leave."_

Zevran gave a little grimace of apology as a seagull overhead let out an irritable caw; just having been threatened with violence from the sweating kitchen staff.

"I'm sorry, _carina. _My persuasive tongue rarely lets me down, but your old man is… well. He is very stubborn. I attempted to beguile him into staying, but to no avail."

"Thank you for trying," Flora replied, her pale eyes searching the elf's tattooed face. "And thank _you_ for coming to get me."

This second remark was directed towards Finian, who gave a wan half-smile of apology.

For a moment the four of them stood silently together on the gravel, the afternoon sun bearing down on top of their heads. A salt-edged breeze blew in from the ocean over the ramparts, and this breath of freshness seemed to give Alistair some new inspiration.

"Darling, why don't we take a detour on the royal progress to visit Herring? We can stop there on the way to Highever."

Flora's face immediately flooded with hope; she turned to her new husband, wide-eyed and astonished.

"We could do that? Really?"

Out of his sister's eye-line, Finian gave a wince of _sympathy_: volunteering to visit the grimmest, sourest little village on the northern coast was a true act of love.

The king nodded, feeling a swell of pride in his gut at his new queen's transparent delight. Flora reached out her arms to embrace him; he drew her against his chest and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. The baby, indignant at being ignored earlier, squirmed hard enough for both of them to feel. Alistair beamed, dropping a hand as he drew back to caress the leather-encased swell. The next moment, his eyebrows shot into his hairline with surprise.

"Maker's Breath, Flo! You're _roasting."_

"It's the stupid leather dress," Flora retorted, feeling a bead of sweat running down her forehead. "It's so tight, I feel like a sea-snake with two skins."

"Let's get back inside," Alistair replied, relieved that his bride seemed somewhat cheered. "I bet you ten silver that Leliana is having _conniptions _wondering where we are_."_

Fortunately, the lay sister had been delayed with a minor incident over seating arrangements – the Vaels could not be sitting opposite the Trevelyans, due to a recent trade dispute. She arrived in the small chamber adjacent to the great hall minutes after the bridal couple themselves returned.

The sharp-eyed Leliana soon detected that something was amiss; not fooled by Alistair and Flora sitting innocently side-by-side on the velvet couch beside the hearth. Her eagle-like stare went straight to Flora's bloodied knee, sore feet, and slightly smeared _kaddis _below her damp eyes.

"Créateur_! _What on Thedas- "

No longer wasting any time with words, Leliana pulled two silk handkerchiefs from her sleeves with a jester's flourish, swooping forwards with steely determination. A handful of minutes later and the blood had been cleaned, the _kaddis_ refined and the eyes patted dry.

"There we go, _ma fleur," _murmured Leliana, drawing back to survey her work. "Now, are we ready to proceed into the great hall?"

Alistair, despite the ominous spectre of upcoming prolonged socialisation, beamed reflexively; squeezing Flora's knee gently as they rose to their feet in unrehearsed synchrony.

"I'm going to be the envy of every man in the room," the king declared, his gaze sweeping over his new wife from head to toe once again. "My wild rose."

Flora smiled up at him, reaching out to entwine their fingers together in the familiar fish-rope ritual that meant far more than any of the Chantry traditions they had enacted today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww they're MARRRIIIIIEEEEEDDDDDDDD


	57. The Grand-Duc

Flora had gained a glimpse of the wedding feast preparations in the great hall during her nocturnal wanderings; but this would not have prepared her for the sheer transformation that the largest chamber in the Palace had undergone in the past few hours. The great hall's ceiling reached near sixteen metres in height, the ornate wooden scaffolding decorated with trailing banners a dozen feet long. There were so many pennants hanging from the rafters that the eaves had been transformed into a riotous assembly of colour; the emblems of all the great Fereldan houses represented. The flint and timber walls, decorated with meticulously arranged shields and weaponry, were lined with full-sized laurel trees in ceramic planters.

Long wooden tables lined three sides of the room, accompanied by chairs sufficient for several hundred people. The candelabras and blooming flower set-pieces were almost hidden by the massive quantity of food arranged in cauldrons, on platters, in little dishes and on tiered stands. The first course had been set out already – beef marrow fritters, miniature pastries filled with cod liver, cuts of meat in cinnamon sauce and eels in a spicy puree. There was a large space left between the arranged tables for dancing, and a small wooden stage had been constructed in one corner for minstrels.

At the far end of the hall was a raised stone platform, upon which the top table rested. In the centre, two large and ornately carved wooden thrones stood side by side, flanked by chairs of diminishing grandness. Overhead, a great green-and-white wooden table was hung on the back wall; this was allegedly the table at which Calenhad and the Alamarri tribal leaders had sat to discuss the unification of Ferelden. Nobody knew if there was any truth in the object's history, but it had become one of the nation's most revered relics regardless.

The guests were already assembled along the tables – men and women from all corners of Thedas; many of whom had travelled for several weeks to reach Denerim. Naturally, they were seated according to dynasty and nation, the colours of a hundred different liveries gathered in distinct groupings along the tables. The Valmonts were clad in blue and argent, clustered around _Grand-Duc_ Gaspard_; _their expressions tactfully hidden by silvered face masks. The Pentaghasts of Nevarra were seated nearby in stripes of mustard and black, their richly hued skin and dark hair in stark contrast to the pallid, sun-shunning Orlesians. The Marcher families were seated according to alliance; green-clad Trevelyans at the opposite end of the table to the four redheaded attendees from House Vael. Flanked with a glowering Templar guard, a group of Tevinter magisters gossiped quietly at the furthest table; they had come solely for a glimpse of the Archdemon's markings left on the lady Cousland's body.

Flora's companions – as veterans of the Fifth Blight - had been afforded a table at the very front of the room, second only to the top table itself. They sat adjacent to the Landsmeet; Leliana's seat empty as the bard continued to orchestrate proceedings from behind the scenes. Oghren was already getting stuck into the free-flowing Antivan port, greeting Zevran with a hiccup as the elf slid neatly into his assigned place.

Finian also arrived late to the top table, where the members of the King's Council were already seated. Fergus shot his younger brother an enquiring stare from the corner of his blue-grey eye; nodding thanks to an elven servant who had just finished refilling his ale.

"Where've_ you_ been?"

"Minor crisis," the middle Cousland sibling replied, taking his seat and exhaling. Leonas Bryland, who was sitting at the adjacent chair, gave a small grunt.

"What crisis?"

"Flora's _'pa'_ just left."

Nearby, Eamon abruptly broke off his conversation; leaning sideways across his brother to listen in.

"What do you mean, the man's _left?"_

"Gone, departed, _défunt," _explained Finian, with a helpless wave of his fingers. "Apparently there are _lobster pots _in Herring that need repairing, or something along those lines. He's gone."

"He's missing the _feast? _That's always the best part of a wedding!"

Fergus fell into a bemused silence, while Eamon and Leonas shared a mutual grimace. Teagan, who understood a little better why one might desire to spurn noble festivities, let out a soft sound of sympathy under his breath.

"Poor creature - is she alright?"

Eamon, meanwhile, had more practical concerns on his mind. Flora had played her role to perfection in the Grand Chantry; he did not want her bursting into tears at the sight of the jellied eels. Finian, who had learnt to read the face like a book during his tenure in Orlais, let the corner of his scarred mouth tug upwards in a wry smile.

"Don't worry. I highly doubt she's going to collapse weeping into her bowl."

Just then, the herald at the entrance gave a loud and resonant bellow, demanding the attention of those present within the chamber. There was a prompt clatter as tankards and flagons were downed, knives replaced on plates and general conversation paused.

"_All rise for their majesties, the king and queen of Ferelden!"_

There followed a scraping of chairs as those assembled dutifully rose; eyes turning to the vast archway at the far end of the room. The minstrels in the corner struck up one of Ferelden's most well-known patriotic songs, _'The Legend of Calenhad, First of his Name.'_

The king and queen of Ferelden entered the great hall a moment later. Instead of the bride resting a delicate hand upon the groom's arm in the customary manner, their fingers were wound together in a show of mutual support and joint strength. The king was more jovial than he had been when immersed in the sacred formality of the Chantry; at ease with the attention and inordinately proud of his new wife. Those older dignitaries present noted once more Alistair's resemblance to Maric; father and son possessed the same long-limbed, muscular warrior's frame, accompanied by honest and handsome features. They also shared the same tousled, burnished gold hair, which never quite rested flat despite liberal application of water and the weight of a crown.

His northerner bride still had not spared a smile for any other apart from her husband, her pale grey stare sweeping quickly across the audience as though finding little worthy of resting her eyes on. The haughty, finely-hewn features were undoubtedly beautiful, but as unapproachable as her cool gaze. Those who knew Flora were aware that this grave stillness was just the natural set of her face; that the solemnity was a mask that she used to disguise her nervousness; that the coldness of the limpid, dark-lashed eyes was utterly misleading considering the shy and obliging character of the girl within.

Eamon let out an inward sigh of relief on seeing no crack in Flora's stony exterior. If Alistair was bright, burnished gold; she appeared the steely silverite that added strength to the alloy.

Alistair and Flora proceeded hand in hand across the space left clear for dancing, the length of his stride carefully tempered not to out-pace his barefoot wife. Flora could feel the heat of several hundred pairs of eyes; no surprise, since the Alamarri garb was cut to show off the ripe curves of her fecund body as well as the Archdemon's traces on her skin. This did not bother her overmuch – she was used to being closely observed in varying states of dress from her tenure at the Circle.

King and queen made their way steadily up towards the top table. Flora passed her companions seated at a prominent table near the front; she turned her head to the side and smiled at them, her face lit like sunlight dappled across seawater. Wynne smiled back at her wryly, trying not to chuckle. The senior enchanter knew full well that Flora thought this whole charade ridiculous – _why did she and Alistair have to proceed formally into the hall together? They'd already proceeded out of the Chantry! Why can't we just walk into the room with everyone else?!_

Zevran and Oghren were also trying to stifle snickers as the couple _proceeded to proceed_ up to the thrones at the top table. The dwarf had just made his hundredth lewd remark of the day; this time wondering if Flora remained so stern and straight-faced in the bedchamber.

"Trust me," the elf replied, with the over-familiar air of the consummate _voyeur. _"She doesn't."

To Flora's dismay, the two wooden thrones were the most _uncomfortable_ seats at the top table. They were astonishing pieces of craftsmanship, carved with Fereldan hunting scenes – his had a pair of Mabari tussling over the corpse of a _halla, _while she had a hunter atop a horse with a hawk perched on his arm. The carven hawk was protuberant enough to stick directly into the base of her naked back.

There came a few moments of noise and bustle as those standing took their seats once again, following the leads of king and queen. Fergus, who was seated at his sister's side, noticed her shifting uncomfortably in place.

"What's wrong, Floss?"

"Nothing," she said hastily, not wishing to cause a fuss before the assembled audience.

Now that the king and queen had arrived, the eating could resume. The guests gratefully picked up spoons and knives once more, setting into a banquet that had taken two dozen cooks a full week to prepare. The minstrels struck up a jovial melody of Fereldan folk-songs; many of which Flora recognised as native to her beloved northern coast.

"You're going to have to eat in sporadic bursts," Eamon murmured quietly in Alistair's ear. "The formal introductions will begin in just a moment, and they'll last quite a while."

"How long?" Alistair asked in mild dismay, having already placed an entire wheel of cheese and several thick slices of rye bread onto his platter.

"Until the soup course," chimed in Teagan from the far end of the table, passing down a flagon of Antivan port. "At least."

Alistair grumbled under his breath, forking a defiant mouthful of sharp Fereldan cheddar into his mouth.

Meanwhile, beside him, Flora let out a little squeak of recognition. She nudged Alistair in the ribs, her face lighting up.

"Alistair, listen to what the musicians are playing! Do you recognise it?"

Alistair obediently canted his head to the side and listened. The minstrels were playing a haunting, beautiful melody with an echoing refrain that raised the fine hairs on the back of his neck.

"It's a pretty tune but I don't think I know it, darling."

Flora drew her eyebrows together at him in disapproval, nudging him a little harder.

"It's _Bones in the Sand, _the traditional Herring wedding song. I've sung it a hundred times, you should have recognised it!"

Alistair mouthed for a moment, unsure how to explain that Flora's dissonant caterwauling sounded nothing like the sweet, lilting melody currently drifting to the rafters of the great hall.

"Ah, I think I must be tone-deaf, my love," he said kindly after a moment. "Of course it is."

"I'm not surprised he didn't recognise it," chimed in Finian, who had already ingested half a pint of Orlesian brandy. "Floss, your singing sounds like a drunken dwarf passing a kidney stone."

Finian then immediately redeemed himself by leaning sideways with the low cushion from his own chair, sliding it behind Flora to act as a barrier between carved bird's beak and bare back. Just then, the herald made everyone jump and drop their knives by bellowing across the echoing expanse of the great hall.

"_The Grand Duc of Verchiel, Gaspard de Chalons!"_

The first guest to climb the three stone steps onto the elevated platform was the _Grand-Duc _Gaspard. The Orlesian noble had been staying within the noble district since his unsuccessful proposition of Flora, and had spent the fortnight gathering information on the strength of Ferelden's new leaders.

Now dressed from head to toe in the cornflower blue and argent of House Valmont, Gaspard advanced along the table and came to a halt before Ferelden's newly crowned monarchs. He bowed, removing his elaborate mask in the same seamless gesture. The members of the Landsmeet bristled slightly; Teagan shifting in his seat and double-checking that his dagger was in its sheath.

"_Félicitations, vos majestés,"_ the _duc_ murmured in his distinct Val Royeaux accent, the clever blue eyes moving from Alistair to Flora in turn. "That was a very… _unique _ceremony."

Alistair bowed his head in acknowledgement, jaw stiff with the effort of maintaining a neutral demeanour.

"I pass on the _congratulations_ of my niece, the Empress Celene, also," Gaspard continued; the corner of his mouth curving upwards superciliously. "I am sure that she will be writing to you soon to express such in her own words."

"Well, I await her correspondence with baited breath," Alistair replied drily, taking a gulp of ale. "I'm sure it'll make great bedtime reading."

The _duc_ nodded and made to continue along to the end of the platform; the next moment he paused, unable to resist throwing one final jibe.

"But one query – forgive me – I thought that the ceremony was to be held in Ferelden's _Grand _Chantry? What made you change your mind and hold it in a… _lesser_ church?"

Alistair tightened his jaw at the none-too-subtle implication that Ferelden's most important Chantry somehow did not deserve the prefix _Grand _– not like the famous Great Cathedral in the Orlesian capital. Eamon sighed under his breath; at the far end of the table, Teagan let out a dark mutter.

"I don't think the Maker cares much about gilded tiles and expensive mosaics," the new queen offered quietly without looking up, having heard Leliana's description of the Cathedral at Val Royeaux many times. It was the first Flora had spoken since commenting on the minstrel's tune earlier. "Andraste worshipped Him under the naked sky while kneeling in the dirt clad in rags, and He loved her no less for it."

She raised her pale, cool eyes to the _duc_, unimpressed by his snide remark. Gaspard gazed back at her and then smiled, relenting with calculated graciousness.

"Very true, _ma reine. Congratulations _once again."

He bowed as much as his Valmont pride would allow; replacing the silver domino on his face and advancing to the end of the platform to descend the steps.

Flora speared a piece of smoked cod with her knife, and then nearly dropped it as Alistair gave her a little nudge of delight. He looked about to say something, then simply grinned and kissed her on the cheek; lips lingering against the skin.

"_Lord Vael of Starkhaven and his sons!"_

The Marcher family wore matching red and tan checked tartan, their ceremonial daggers sheathed on their belts. Each member possessed rich auburn hair – though Lord Vael's shoulder-length locks were beginning to fade with age - and the same shade of startlingly vibrant blue eyes.

"Well met, your majesties," declared the Lord of Starkhaven, the Chantry amulet around his neck dropping low as he bowed. "May I introduce my heir and younger sons – Corbinian, Gideon and Sebastian."

The two eldest Vael sons made identical bows, murmuring their polite congratulations. After a deep bow, the youngest – Sebastian – reached out to anchor Flora's hand in his own, kissing the back of her fingers with deliberate reverence.

"You remind me of a famous Marcher poem, your majesty," he said, each word coated with the distinctive Starkhaven burr._ "Lips pink as the blush of a maid, hair red as the sunset in Solace."_

Flora, who did not understand the purpose of poetry, stared at him blankly. Alistair appreciated neither the over-familiar tone of the young prince - nor his reference to Flora's _lips - _and narrowed his eyes.

Lord Vael, sensing an impending diplomatic incident, swiftly cut over his youngest son.

"_Sebastian! _Any more of that nonsense, and I'll have you sent to the monastery. Alistair, may I just say how _strongly_ you resemble your father?"

The next few minutes were spent in harmless conversation about Maric, during which Flora subtly ate another mouthful of smoked cod and Sebastian sulked alongside his brothers.

As the Marcher lord and his sons retreated back to their own table, Finian leaned behind his brother's chair and poked Flora in the arm. She looked at him through a mouthful of jellied eel, eyebrows raised.

"What did you think of the oldest son? His father had plans for you and he to be married!"

Fergus, who had not told his sister of the proposals he had rejected on her behalf, kicked his brother promptly under the table. Flora, who had no idea what Finian was talking about, swallowed her jellied eels and smiled vaguely.

"Well, we'd have had lots of redheaded children. I barely understood a word he was saying, though, with that accent."

"Not necessarily a bad thing for a marriage," replied Finian, with a little snicker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So we've got some Trevelyans, Pentaghasts, Kirkwall nobles and Antivans to meet next chapter! I like doing these little cameos. They're actually pretty unrealistic – in real Medieval times, national leaders would have sent envoys and ambassadors in their stead, since travel was so dangerous and lengthy. But let's just ignore that because I like name-dropping all these characters from DA2 and DA:I, hehe.
> 
> I envision the great hall as looking like the great hall in Winchester (even down to the green and white table, although that has (false) Arthurian origins). It's easily google-able if anyone wants a mental location to envisage!
> 
> The food sounds ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTING – but is all authentic to Medieval banquets, haha. Jellied eels, cod liver, beef marrow… eeeeghhhhh.
> 
> I mentioned that Teagan knew what it was like to not want the noble lifestyle - this is based on him initially not wanting to leave the Marches and take up the position of Bann of Rainesfere (which he did so reluctantly, on the request of his brother). Based off his DA wikia page!
> 
> Sebastian's eyes freak me out so much! Why are they SO blue? They remind me of toilet cleaner/bleach.


	58. The Crow

The next man to make his way up to the Royal table did so at a leisurely pace, with a smirk playing across his features. He had olive skin and a curling dark beard, scented with a pomade so strong that it overwhelmed the odour of roasted meat rising from the platters. A golden hoop hung from his left ear, and matching rings decorated his calloused fingers. He was clad in a spectrum of gaudy colours; a mustard yellow shirt, forest-green breeches and an eye-catching crimson waistcoat. As he strolled along the platform, there came a sudden metallic clatter from the lower tables, as though someone had abruptly dropped their knife.

"_Claudio Valisti of Antiva!"_

"Your majesties," murmured the Antivan trade-prince, dropping into an ornate bow. "May I pass on the gratitude of all Antiva for your role in vanquishing the Fifth Blight; which would surely have come to threaten our shores in time."

Alistair nodded while Flora gazed at the man in slight awe, having never seen before such a rainbow of riotous colour on one man.

"As you can see for yourself, Ferelden is free from Blight," Eamon interjected politely, his green Guerrin eyes fixing themselves on the merchant-prince's tan face. "So there's no need to maintain the quarantine on our ships. It's in both of our interests to lift the embargo and open the trade routes up again."

"_Sí," _murmured Claudio Valisti, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "It would seem that the quarantine is no longer necessary. We will have to discuss terms before I return to Antiva, _si lo desea_."

For no reason other than the merchant-prince had spoken in his native tongue, Flora let her gaze slide downwards to where her own Antivan companion was sitting. To her alarm, Zevran was visibly quivering behind the table; rigid as a board and white as a winding-sheet, the rich, stewed-tea colour of his skin entirely drained. His eating-knife lay on the floor – it had been him who had dropped the utensil – and Leliana was hunched at his side, whispering urgently into his ear. As Flora watched in alarm, the elf rose silently to his feet and slipped out through a side-entrance, pale and insubstantial as a ghost flitting through the Veil.

"Anyway," continued the merchant-prince, a gold tooth glinting as he smiled. "Let us not discuss _business _on such a joyous occasion. _Felicitaciones _on your nuptials, King Alistair. Your wife is a flower in all meanings of the word. The flower to which all the butterflies flock."

"She is," agreed Alistair, slightly gruffly. He was not one for grandiose metaphors, but was readily prepared to agree with anyone who praised his best friend's beauty.

The merchant-prince bowed his head, his dark Antivan eyes sliding sideways to Fergus.

"Speaking of beautiful women, I must give my commiserations to the teyrn. Oriana Orsini was a jewel, stolen from us far too soon. I dined with her father a fortnight ago - he was gratified to hear of Howe's death, yet distraught that he could not pursue his own _vendetta _against the treacherous _bastardo_."

Fergus had half-thought that his wife's family might attend the coronation, and did not know whether he was disappointed or relieved at their absence. He gave a small nod, not quite trusting himself to give a verbal reply. The loss of his son was still far too near a tragedy to speak of in public; especially when the most important eyes in Thedas rested upon him.

Claudio Valisti retreated to his seat with another elaborate bow; Flora noticed that Zevran had still not returned to the table. Her stomach gave a slight roll of trepidation – she had never before seen the elf so visibly disconcerted, not even when confronted with demons or Darkspawn. She was about to nudge Alistair, when the steward announced a pause in the formal introductions to allow the next course to be served.

This was clearly going to be a lengthy process – servants flooded in from every available doorway, exchanging empty plates and tureens for freshly-prepared platters. Whole geese stuffed with aniseed and other spices were escorted by freshwater fish and capon and olive pastries. Great cauldrons of broth with bacon accompanied slabs of herbed venison, blackberry and veal tartlets, and roast bream with darioles. Giant pots of leek and chicken stew were carried between pairs of sweating servants.

"I need to use the privy," Flora whispered in Fergus' ear, patting her swollen stomach as an excuse. "Sorry. Can I get out?"

Alistair's head swivelled as his new wife made to leave, fingers extending to rest on her bare wrist.

"Darling?"

Flora put her mouth to his cheek in the pretence of kissing him, instead directing a whisper into his ear.

"Zevran went as white as a fish belly when he saw that man, then ran off. I'm going to see what's wrong."

Unable to resist, she then planted a real kiss on her husband's bearded cheek; wishing that she could sit in his lap and embrace him properly.

Alistair gave a little nod, reaching out to touch her chin affectionately with his thumb.

"Take Leliana,"he murmured, dropping his hand to grip her fingers, then bringing them up to his mouth and kissing them. "I won't have you wandering the palace alone with all these strangers."

Flora nodded, clambering to her feet. To her astonishment, there followed a cacophonous scraping of chairs as the entire banquet hall hastily rose to their feet in a show of respect; heads swivelling towards her.

_So much for my stealthy exit, _Flora thought to herself with a little grimace, raising her chin and heading towards the same exit that Zevran had darted out of a short while earlier. After receiving a pointed stare from Alistair, Leliana dabbed her lips with a linen napkin and padded softly in the queen's wake; drawing far less attention to herself.

Zevran had exited the room through a servants' passage, which was fortunately limited in its choice of destination. With Leliana on her heels, Flora ventured down the torch-lit corridor; avoiding the chattering servants as they carried empty platters and piles of tankards back to the kitchens.

"Why did he leave?" Flora asked over her shoulder, the flagstones cold against her bare feet. Leliana gave an elegant shrug, her pale blue eyes darting behind them to ensure that they had not been followed.

"You will have to ask him, _ma petite. _Here, try this way – I doubt he's gone as far as the kitchens."

The bard gestured to a wooden door on the left, tucked away beneath a discreet archway. Flora nudged tentatively at the door, which gave way into a vaulted storage chamber. Rows of wooden shelving stood empty apart from the occasional cracked bowl or tarnished silver platter. It was lit by high windows set into the wall overhead, dusty afternoon sunlight filtering in through half-opened shutters.

At the far end of the chamber, the elf perched with feline elegance on a low wooden bench. He was gazing unseeing at the cobwebbed stone wall before him, fingers running compulsively over the linen-wrapped handle of his blade. Another knife lay across his thigh; the silverite gleaming like arcane fire in the filtered sunlight. Although he must have heard them come in – Zevran had the hearing of a bat – he remained motionless, dark eyes fixed on nothing.

"_Zevran! _Why are you hiding back here?" Leliana demanded, aware that the second course would not take forever to set out. "What's wrong, _cherie?"_

The elf made no reply, though his fingers shivered on the blade's handle. Flora sat beside him on the bench, her knee relieved at the sudden lack of pressure; and methodically removed each of the knives from Zevran's person, placing them carefully to one side. Next she lifted the crown from her head, letting Mairyn's ancient circlet rest gently beside the blades.

Sharp objects now removed, Flora put her arms about the elf, reaching about his lean torso to embrace him. She did not need a spirit of Compassion to tell her that her friend was in pain; it was writ naked across his richly-hued face. For a moment Zevran remained rigid in her arms and Flora loosened her grip, giving him the choice whether to pull away or return her embrace.

Ultimately he chose the latter, drawing her arms more tightly around his chest. Ironically enough for one who had been raised without much physical affection, Flora had a natural affinity for giving it. She rested her cheek on Zevran's shoulder, letting one palm smooth gently up and down the lean muscle of his back. From this angle she could see each fine line snaking its way outwards from the elf's eye; intersecting with the faded pigment of his tattoos.

Zevran inhaled against her unruly mass of hair for several moments, breathing in the remnants of Chantry incense and Leliana's violet perfume. It was a rich and heady scent, and it took some measure of willpower for the elf to draw back; pulling in a quick gulp of mildewed storage-chamber air to ground himself.

"I am sorry, _carina,"_ he murmured, sensing Flora's anxious grey eyes searching his face. "Give me but a moment to compose myself and we shall return to the feast."

Flora nodded, without making further enquiry. As a native of Herring, she knew that prying open a locked container would often damage its contents; whereas if it were left to sit out in the wind and saltwater spray, it would yield in its own time.

As it turned out, Flora did not need to wait long. She had just dropped her gaze to her bitten fingernails when Zevran spoke, his carefully measured words echoing about the hollow storage chamber.

"Three years ago, Claudio Valisti took out a contract with my Crow house-master, Eoman Arainai. The contract was on a bastard daughter of Prince Estefan, who was accused of plotting against the throne. A woman by the name of- "

"_Rinna," _breathed Flora, remembering a conversation in the Brecilian Forest six months prior.

The elf gave a single nod, a flicker passing across his dark eyes.

"I claim no innocence in the matter, Taliesin and I carried out the contract on her life. Only afterwards did I learn that the evidence was a fabrication; that it was merely a ploy by my House father to demonstrate how _worthless _each Crow was. That our lives did not matter, and that bonds of friendship were merely illusory."

Flora stared at her friend for a moment, then reached out and took his elegant, long-fingered hand in her own, squeezing their palms tightly together.

"What do you want to happen?" she mumbled, bringing their conjoined hands to her throat and clamping them beneath her chin. "Alistair can have him thrown out of the palace. Then I can deliver some Herring-style _street justice."_

Zevran smiled as Leliana paled, bowing his head in response to Flora's offer of vengeance.

"Ah, _mi florita, _I wish for no diplomatic incident to arise from my actions. Though I appreciate the offer, _nena_."

Flora gazed at her friend a moment more, still anchoring his fingers with hers. Zevran continued on, his voice gaining steadiness by the minute.

"No, _amor, _I _will_ take down Claudio Valisti - but it will be on my own terms, at a time of my choosing, and it will be the culmination of a meticulously planned operation. I will not throw your wedding day into chaos with an impulsive, ill-thought dagger thrust."

Leliana exhaled in relief, wiping away a bead of sweat from her forehead. Flora leaned forwards, tilting the elf's face towards her with a palm and pressing a kiss against the faded tattoo on his cheek.

"Want me to go and throw some jellied eels at his head, then?" she whispered solemnly, only half-joking.

The elf laughed, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes crumpling. Reaching for the stepped golden crown, he slid it gently back into Flora's hair, straightening it with the shrewd eye of a perfectionist.

"Ah, _novia," _he murmured, leaning back to survey her with a touch of wistfulness. "I hope Ferelden realises how fortunate it is."

Once back in the great hall, Flora returned to her seat; eyeing the audience with slight wariness as they rose dutifully to acknowledge her entrance. Alistair also rose to his feet, reaching towards his wife and touching her bare arm as she lowered herself down onto the cushion. It was good timing; the last platters of the course were just being brought out and soon the formal introductions would be resumed.

"Is Zev alright?" the king murmured into her hair, rubbing the callused ball of his thumb around the shell of her ear.

"Mm, I'm not sure," Flora replied, smiling gratefully up at a servant as they brought her a flagon of apple-flavoured water. "That Antivan – Claw, Claws – _Claws Velocity – _is evil."

Alistair's eyebrows shot into his gilded hairline as he blinked; trying to decipher this latest piece of Flora-speak.

"Eh? Who? Oh –_Claudio Valisti? _Wait, what do you mean _he's_ _evil?"_

"I'll tell you later," Flora whispered back, restraining herself from tipping the entire platter of crab tartlets directly down her throat.

Alistair grimaced unhappily, but there was no time for further questioning. The steward had risen to his feet once more, preparing to announce the next set of formal introductions.

"_The Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick, and his daughter Beatrix!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: OK, hopefully I'm not butchering lore too badly here, hehe. I took the Claudio Valisti information from his DA wikia page! I also made up a generic maiden name for Oriana Cousland, seeing as it's not listed anywhere that I could find.
> 
> Anyway, I thought there was a nice parallel in this chapter – several chapters ago, Zevran tried to persuade Flora's Herring-father Pel to stay (thus preserving an element of her past); and now Flora is looking after Zevran as he deals with an unwelcome aspect of his own past (Claudio).


	59. An Assortment Of Notable Guests

"_The Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick, and his daughter Beatrix!"_

The Marcher Bann turned out to be a middle-aged man with a kind, weary face; a necklace of Chantry symbols rattling around his neck as he bowed dutifully before king and queen. His daughter had dark hair twisted up into a tight bun, and unusual mauve eyes. Like her father, she wore the Chantry symbol prominently around her neck.

"The Maker smiled upon Ferelden when he set the burden of Blight on your capable shoulders," the Bann murmured, fingers rising to touch the Chantry symbols reflexively. "He must have had great faith in you both, praise be."

Alistair smiled politely, recalling the terrible, chaotic days immediately after the tragedy at Ostagar. With his sister-warden lying senseless in a witch's hut in the Wilds, his commander and his king dead in a Darkspawn-overrun valley, and the rest of his Order obliterated – it had not _felt _as though they had been specially chosen by the Maker. He had attributed their survival to some random twist of fate, since only a cruel god would have placed such a burden on two inexperienced young recruits.

"Weren't you afraid for the health of your child when you fought the Archdemon?"

This question was from the bann's daughter, and was directed towards the queen. Those at the tables closest to the raised platform pricked up their ears, curious to hear the response.

Flora lifted her pale eyes to meet Beatrix Trevelyan's curious, plum-coloured gaze.

"Well, if I _hadn't_ fought the Archdemon, we would mostly likely be dead anyway," she replied, softly. "And the child has a warrior's spirit, like it's father."

Alistair grinned sideways at his wife, leaning over to spread his palm proudly over the swell of Flora's leather-clad belly.

"And like it's mother," he added, loyally. "Bann Trevelyan, I remember being told once that Ostwick was protected by a double wall. Am I confusing it with Ansburg?"

"No, your majesty, you're not mistaken," replied the old bann, reaching up compulsively to touch the Chantry symbols around his neck once more. "We are renowned for our double wall throughout the Marches and beyond."

Alistair sat up a little straighter, leaning forward on his elbows.

"Much of our city wall was damaged during the battle with the Archdemon. I'd be interested in hearing how your engineers built a double-wall foundation on marshy land."

As king and bann engaged in conversation – with occasional interjections by Teagan – Beatrix Trevelyan fixed Flora once more with her peculiar, mauve stare.

"The markings left by the Archdemon on your body look like the Maker's symbol. What could that _mean, _I wonder?"

Flora looked down at her hands, nonplussed. The white scars across her palms did indeed bear some resemblance to the Chantry sunburst; as did the other scars scattered across her torso.

"I think it's just a coincidence," she replied, hoping that the inquisitive bann's daughter would leave it at that.

This was clearly not a satisfactory answer, and Beatrix Trevelyan's dark eyebrows drew together in chagrin. Fortunately for Flora, Alistair and Beatrix' father had just finished their conversation on the city walls, and the bann was preparing to take his leave.

Trevelyan bowed once more, with a promise to add the health of king, queen and royal baby to his nightly prayers. His well-trained daughter matched her father's genuflection; throwing a final curious glance over her shoulder as they returned to their seats.

As the steward prepared to announce the next guests Flora leaned towards Fergus and nudged his navy, velvet-clad shoulder.

"Why are you giving Alistair five hundred sheep for me? Is it a _bribe?_ You should be paying him in fish. I've never associated with any _sheep._"

Fergus laughed, reaching over to pat her cheek.

"Not just _sheep, _pup_. _Twenty thousand gold coins, and an island, and – _anyway_. It's a dowry, it's expected whether you're a princess or a peasant. Do brides not come with dowries in Herring?"

Flora shook her head, her brow furrowed.

"Do you get anything in return from Alistair? In exchange for me?"

Fergus replied in the negative with a smile to hide the faint regret in his tone; but his sister was perceptive and detected the rueful edge to the words. She blinked at him with a question in her eyes, watching her eldest brother take a long draw from his tankard.

"It… feels a little as though Finn and I are losing you to the Theirin," Fergus murmured after a moment, replacing the tankard on the table. "And we've only just found you again. I suppose I just – I just wanted you as a _Cousland_ for a little longer."

Flora opened her mouth to say something, then realised that there was nothing that she could say; Fergus had spoken truly. This period of the three Cousland siblings coming together was brief and would not last much longer – she would soon be leaving on a royal progress with Alistair, while Fergus and Finian headed off to govern Highever and Amaranthine respectively.

The steward's call echoed out over the feast, indicating that the next noble guest was ready to be presented.

"_Lord Halward Pavus, lord of Asariel!"_

A Tevinter magister rose to his feet, resplendent in rich crimson with a golden trim. He was accompanied up to the top table by two grim-faced Templar; Flora was delighted to see Chanter Devotia as one of the pair. The Chanter inclined her head slightly to acknowledge Flora, even as the magister made a bow towards king and queen.

"Congratulations, your majesties," the Tevinter lord murmured, streaks of silver adding a venerable air to his dark, slicked-back hair. "I apologise for the unplanned absence of my son and heir. Dorian has been most _wilful _of late – it is… disappointing."

Fergus sat up a fraction in his seat, narrowing his eyes. House Pavus had made a tentative enquiry regarding a marriage alliance between Flora and the aforementioned _disappointing heir,_ Dorian. The proposal had been hastily retracted once news spread that the lady Cousland had lost her connection with the Fade, as a consequence of the fight with the Archdemon.

"Your majesty," the Tevinter magister repeated, turning to Flora and reaching out expectantly.

Realising that he wanted to kiss her hand, Flora obediently extended her fingers. Lord Pavus took them and bowed his head; they all were treated to the scent of the fragrant pomade in his beard. After pressing his lips to Flora's knuckles, the Tevinter lord swiftly turned her hand over to look at her palm. His dark pupils constricted with enthralment as he gazed at the silvery markings standing out stark against the pale skin. Flora blinked, momentarily taken aback.

"_Fascinating," _he breathed, eyes moving over her palm._ "_I should like very much to _inspect _the other marks on your person."

Alistair bridled like a provoked tiger beside her, nostrils flaring as he prepared to snarl a most undiplomatic retort towards the presumptuous Tevinter magister. He was not alone in his indignation; Halward Pavus' suggestion had caused a ripple of consternation along the table.

Flora let the man inspect her palm for a few more moments and then withdrew her hand; lifting a stare cold as the Waking Sea to meet the man's honey coloured gaze.

"Well, _I _should like very much to see a Rivaini basking shark in its natural habitat," she replied quietly, the softness of her words in stark contrast to the steeliness in her eyes. "Tragically, I've resigned myself to the fact that it will _never happen."_

The Tevinter magister could infer well enough Flora's meaning and withdrew with an abrupt little bow. The Templars escorted Halward Pavus back to his seat, with their scowls ingrained even more deeply than before.

Beside Flora, Alistair was still prickling with indignation, directing furious whispers in Eamon's ear.

"Audacious, insolent _son of a – _he's not staying in the palace, is he? I don't want him within a mile of Flo."

"Lord Pavus is staying in the noble district, under the supervision of the Templars," Eamon replied in placating tones.

"Well, I want the Templar guard on him doubled," hissed Alistair, not prepared to relinquish his outrage just yet. "The bloody _cheek _of the man_ – _wanting to _inspect _my wife. _My _wife!"

Flora had already mentally moved on from the presumptuous magister, heroically trying to gulp down an entire bowl of vegetable broth before the next guests were introduced.

"_Lord Marlowe Dumar, Viscount of Kirkwall and his son, Saemus Dumar!"_

The Viscount of Kirkwall was a stately, dour-faced man clad in dark velvet from head to foot. A black iron spiked crown rested atop his balding head, and he had the tired expression of a man under the thumb of some greater force. The son, a dark-haired and less world-weary copy of his father, appeared a fraction friendlier.

"Congratulations, your majesties," the Viscount murmured with a bow. "On both your marriage, and the vanquishing of the Blight. Does this mean that the stream of Fereldan refugees into Kirkwall will abate? The city is at bursting point."

"Most of those refugees left under Loghain's residency," Eamon countered, swiftly. "When it appeared that the government was ignoring the threat of the Darkspawn. Believe me, Marlowe, we desire the tide stemmed as much as you."

"We can't rebuild a nation with half of our people disappearing across the Waking Sea to the Marches," Alistair added, wryly. "So if any Fereldan refugees fancy making the journey back, please encourage them."

The Viscount snorted, his eyes drifting ruefully out of focus for a moment.

"There's _one _troublesome individual I'd particularly like to see the back of," he murmured, almost to himself. "Unfortunately, him and his family seem… _well-entrenched."_

Dumar's son spoke up tentatively, after casting a final look around the crowded tables.

"Excuse me, your majesties," he enquired, shy but determined. "I was under the impression that you had a _Qunari _with you on your travels. Is he not here?

"Big social occasions aren't really Sten's cup of tea," Alistair replied, just about refraining from adding that _they weren't really his cup of tea, either._

"Oh," replied Saemus, slightly disappointed. "That's… that's a shame. I'd been hoping to see him."

The Viscount shot a little sideways glance of warning towards his son, then took a deep breath and rapidly changed the topic.

"Eamon, we must meet tomorrow about re-opening the trade channels across the Waking Sea. The dressmakers of Kirkwall are complaining for want of Ferelden wool."

"And we sorely need more Marches lumber for our rebuilding efforts," Eamon replied, steadily. "We'll work out the particulars tomorrow."

"Aye, business has no place at a wedding," agreed the Viscount, with a courteous bow towards Alistair and Flora. "King Alistair, you're a fortunate man indeed. Your wife is very beautiful."

"And her _bravery_ is equally impressive," Alistair countered, valiantly.

A short while later, the Viscount and his son made their way slowly back down to their table. The next course was ready to be brought in; the servants were clustered in doorways with trays and platters, waiting for the formal introductions to be finished. Fortunately, they did not have much longer to wait – the final family to offer congratulations to the king and queen were making their way up to the top table in a mass of mustard and black silk. One of them – an old, plump man with slender fingers and a shining bald egg-like head, was escorted by two Templars; indicating his mage status.

"_Here come the death cultists,"_ Alistair breathed in Flora's ear as the Pentaghasts proceeded up the three steps to the royal platform. "Do you think they've resurrected some corpses to add their numbers?"

Flora almost choked on her spoonful of vegetable broth, hoping very much that Alistair was joking.

"The honourable Vestalus Pentaghast, leader of the _Mortalitasi_," the steward announced as the bald-headed man glided forwards with surprising elegance considering his bulk. When Vestalus spoke, it was in the hushed, reverent tones of one who spent most of their time in the depths of a necropolis.

"Your Majesties," he whispered, bowing even as he gestured the rest of his family forward. "I am honoured to meet you both. May I introduce my relatives- "

Several near-identical young Pentaghasts were introduced, each of them sharing the same tan skin, dark hair and hawk-like features. Finally, Vestalus gave a particularly aggressive beckon, and a young woman clad in the garb of a Chantry soldier stepped forward. Her features were as keen as a blade, and she looked _thoroughly_ disapproving. Her bow was perfunctory and mechanical, resentment visibly emanating from her demeanour.

"Congratulations."

"I apologise for my niece, Cassandra," the Mortalitasi murmured, flapping elegant fingers in contrition. "She takes her duties as a _Seeker of Truth _very seriously. It took much persuading before she agreed to attend today."

"We were in the middle of investigating a nest of Templar deserters near Ostwick," Cassandra retorted, bluntly. "They'll have gone to ground by the time I get back."

"Right," said Alistair, somewhat nonplussed. "Well, then. I'm sure they won't get far, with experts like _yourself_ on their trail."

Flora had meanwhile been eyeing each of the Pentaghasts in turn, now reasonably certain that Alistair had been joking about the Mortalitasi's necromancy practises. They all looked healthy enough, though in the midst of her scrutiny, she noticed that Vestalus wore an ebony skull in place of a belt buckle. Flora stared at it for a moment, then realised that it appeared as though she were gazing intently at the Nevarran's crotch. Hastily, she raised her eyes once again; fortunately, the squat man was still focused on Alistair.

"Tell me, your majesty, what kind of arts do the Fereldan people engage in? I have seen little in the way of portraiture since my arrival. Are there few artists in this part of Thedas?"

Flora was confused for a moment, not knowing that Nevarra was the cultural capital of Thedas, widely renowned for its festivals of art. Most citizens thus had some vested interest in culture; though the wealthy tended to invest in art rather than dabble in it personally.

"In Ferelden, we carve much of our art from stone," replied Leonas, gruffly. "Sculptures."

"Aah," murmured the Mortalitasi, in the strange, soft voice of the necropolis. "Do you not find the finished results a little…. _rough around the edges?"_

"Perhaps," retorted Leonas, dark Bryland eyes flashing. "But they last far longer."

The Pentaghasts returned to their seats in a cloud of mustard and dark livery, murmuring to one another in their native tongue. Alistair, relieved that the formal introductions were now over, slung his arm around Flora's shoulders and kissed her on the cheek.

"I'm counting down the hours until we're alone, baby," he murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Me, you- "

"A Chantry mother, a member of the Landsmeet," Finian reminded him, with an evil cackle. "Probably Zevran hiding in the rafters."

Alistair grimaced; he had been trying very determinedly to forget about their upcoming audience. Downing the remainder of his tankard, he immediately topped it up once again – clearly deciding that some _liquid courage _was needed to get through the evening. Flora, who grew nauseous at the full un-distilled toxicity of alcohol on her tongue, was unable to use ale as a similar coping mechanism, and fell into a slight sulk.

The sun was beginning to dip itself leisurely into the horizon. Servants moved discreetly about the hall, tugging on long ropes that pulled down the shutters over the high windows. Any candle which had burnt to its base was replaced with another expensive beeswax length; elongated wooden tapers were used to light the spiked iron candelabras hanging overhead. The great hall was soon bathed in a warm, flickering glow, muted candlelight cast over the faces of those sat at the benches. Belts were being loosened and top buttons undone; still more food was being brought out on silver platters. The cooks of the Royal Palace were determined to lay the rumour of _bland Fereldan cuisine _to rest with their offerings.

Pears soaked in warm red wine were brought out in vast silver tureens, followed swiftly by candied rose and violet petals. Rabbits, birds and Mabari had been cunningly sculpted from marzipan and arranged in natural poses atop the bronze dishes. A custard tart the diameter of a cart-wheel was brought out on the shoulders of two sweating cooks. Finally, curls of sweetened ginger imported from Antiva were nestled inside small terracotta bowls and placed carefully into gaps on the clustered tables.

Oghren appeared as though he had been taken straight to the halls of his Ancestors, eyes expanding like saucers as the desserts were placed on the table before him. Even Zevran managed to summon a smile at the ginger from his homeland; savouring the rush of memory that followed the first bite.

Up on the top table Alistair, who did not have a sweet tooth, was busy getting acquainted with the cheeseboard. Flora - who used to relish the rare occasion that she would get a sweet morsel at the Circle - found to her dismay that her tastes had changed with the growth of the babe. The sugar now tasted bland and oddly metallic in her mouth; despite this, she bit off the head of a marzipan rabbit and chewed it defiantly.

A plate newly set before her contained a number of small cheese-cakes, each one topped with a residue of strange, gold-coloured curls. Flora prodded at one little cake experimentally with her knife, then nudged her brother.

"Fergus, what are these things?"

Fergus swallowed a mouthful of wine-soaked pear and swivelled his head in the direction of her pointed knife.

"Oh, those are _Orlesian fancies. _A favourite from Val Royeaux. Cook probably wants to prove to the _grand duc _that he can make them as well as any _pâtissier."_

"What's the yellow stuff on top?"

"Gold leaf, pup."

Flora asked him to repeat his response, unsure if she had heard him correctly. When Fergus confirmed that the gold-coloured curls were _indeed _made from gold; she gaped at him incredulously.

"Made from METAL?"

"_Very thin _pieces of metal, but – yes."

Flora fell silent for a moment, her brow furrowed.

"No one who eats _metal_ can make fun of me for chewing on wooden things anymore," she said at last. "Huh."

A few minutes later, Alistair finished demolishing a piece of strong Marcher cheddar and glanced sideways at his wife. The next moment, his eyebrows shot into his hairline in a combination of surprise and puzzlement.

"Darling, what are you _doing?"_

Flora had fought off Finian to commandeer the entire platter of Orlesian cheese-cakes. She was surreptitiously and determinedly scraping the gold leaf from each one; creating a little pile of metallic shavings at the side of the plate.

Seeing the vertical motion of Alistair's eyebrows, Flora put down her knife and leaned over to explain into his ear.

"I'm going to donate this _precious gold_ to the Gwaren Restoration Committee," she whispered, earnestly. "Instead of into my _stomach_, it can go into the fund for a new fishing wharf."

Instead of laughing, Alistair gazed at her for several long moments. Inch by inch, the puzzled grin contracted into a tender smile; his eyes softening like bruised apples. Reaching down to snare her fingers, the king bowed his head to his new queen.

"My – sweet - hearted - girl," he breathed, interspersing his words with kisses pressed to her cheeks, her forehead, her nose. "I don't know about gold leaf, but anything you want for Gwaren - you'll have it. I swear to you, my love. You have my full support."

The delighted Flora kissed him back hard on the mouth, full of gratitude. Alistair's hand went to caress her hip even as his lips parted hers with lazy languor; his tongue already intimate with the curve of her mouth.

"_Honestly!" _Finian hissed from Flora's right, sounding eerily like the lay-sister Leliana. "If you want dessert, Floss, try eating the rest of those _dissected _cheesecakes!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: It's like a who's who of Thedas! Hehe.
> 
> Flo is right, the scars being in the shape of a Chantry sunburst is just pure coincidence, lol. There's not much on the characteristics of the wider Trevelyan family on the DA wikia, apart from the fact that they are very religious – so I just went with that, hehe.
> 
> When I was younger, our grandmother took me and my sister to a fancy restaurant and the desserts were covered in gold leaf in the shape of leaves! I remember thinking how ridiculously opulent it was to EAT gold (even though it's not actually worth a lot in gold leaf form, you can buy like 10 sheets of it on Amazon for a fiver haha)… so I wanted to include a little reference to it, haha.


	60. Three Native Dances Of Thedas

To everybody's relief, the speeches were few and short. There was nobody present who could speak at length on the lives of either bride or groom – Alistair had spent much of the past ten years in a monastery, while Flora had been isolated in Herring and then the Circle respectively. Instead, Eamon spoke on briefly on how the legacy of Maric was forged anew in his like-faced son; with strong emphasis on Alistair as a _warrior-king _who – like his father - had fought to defend Ferelden from the enemy (here, the Orlesians muttered amongst themselves, not liking the implicit comparison of themselves to the Darkspawn.)

Leonas then gave an equally brief but earnest speech on Flora's summoning of the armies and of her symbolic leadership of the first truly united Fereldan force in the nation's history. It was a calculated ploy designed to remind the assembled Theodesian leaders that the girl sat beside the king may have been slight in build and youthful in years, but she had brought together a force of ten thousand soldiers in less than a year – and could do so again, if the need arose.

Not listening to the effusive praise being heaped upon her, Flora grasped Alistair's hand as he rested it on her bare, leather-strapped knee; sliding her thumb back and forth over the twisted strands of the wedding ring. It sat snug on his fourth finger, just below the callused knuckle; bright and burnished even in the shadow beneath the table.

"Do you remember where I first told you the _fish-rope_ story?" she whispered, taking advantage of the general hubbub as the servants came in to clear away the dessert platters.

"Of course, my love," Alistair murmured back, swivelling on the throne to angle himself towards her. "We were camping just north of Lothering, on our way to Redcliffe. You'd had a nightmare – it was one of the first times you'd seen the Archdemon in your dreams- "

"_The _first time," Flora corrected, resting her fingers atop Alistair's and wondering at the contrast in size between their hands.

"The first time," Alistair repeated, turning his hand over so that they were palm to scarred palm. "My poor darling. You got so hot and worked up in your sleep that I was terrified you were being possessed – I was already nervy about sharing a tent alone with a _girl _– and so I woke you up."

"You _shook_ me until my teeth rattled like fishhooks in a bait-bucket," Flora added, eyeing him beadily. "I bit my tongue."

"I thought that some Fade demon was trying to take you from me, and I – I couldn't lose my sister-warden too, not after all we'd lost at Ostagar." Alistair paused for a moment, a brief flicker of sadness passing across his face. _"Anyway_, to cheer me up, you told me the story of the brother and sister transforming themselves into fish to escape the nets, tying their tails together with a rope so that- "

"_Not even the tide could part them," _Flora finished, solemnly. "And then I said that we brother- and sister-warden had an invisible _fish-rope _that would always connect us, even through the Veil."

Alistair nodded, the green flecks in his hazel eyes suddenly standing out clear and bright. A tear ran down his cheek, vanishing into the neatly trimmed hair covering his jaw. Flora reached to intercept the second tear with a finger, smiling up at him.

"Stop, or I'll cry too," she whispered, earnestly. "And Leliana has only given me three permitted facial expressions for the day: bored, superior, and FERELDAN DEFIANCE!"

Alistair laughed out loud, the tears drying up.

"Go on then, baby, show me _Fereldan defiance."_

Flora focused on one of the Vael sons, lifting her chin and letting her cold grey eyes bore into him with such ferocity that the unfortunate heir dropped his knife and wondered in alarm what he had done. To assuage the young man's panic, Flora then flashed him a broad and toothy smile; which was equally disconcerting for its rarity. By the time that he had been both glowered and grinned at in rapid succession, the red-headed Vael heir was quaking in his seat.

* * *

As the evening drew on, the feast continued; with only a brief pause before more food was brought out on platters. However, the guests seemed more interested in watching the entertainment whilst simultaneously sampling the Denerim speciality of _wild honey mead._

A group of girls – typically Fereldan in appearance with pale, freckled skin, pink cheeks and ruddy hair - performed a series of native dances for those assembled. Flora recognised several of the dances as originating from her own beloved northern coast, and had to restrain herself from joining in. She had always enjoyed dancing, and it had been many months since she had last had the opportunity to dance to music from her home.

The next moment Flora reminded herself sternly how _ridiculous _she would look with her swollen belly beside this slim bevy of beauties. Sulkily, she slumped down a fraction in her seat and then yelped as the carved bird's beak at the base of the throne promptly poked her in the spine.

Alistair, meanwhile, was watching the dancers with an air of studied politeness. Startling at his wife's yelp, he reached out a concerned hand towards her arm.

"Sweetheart?"

"It's this stupid bird," Flora complained, casting a baleful eye at the ornately carved throne. "Ouch."

Alistair shot a quick glance down at their guests. With the formalities over, there was a far more relaxed atmosphere within the great hall. Many were watching the dancers, others busily fitting as much food into their mouths as possible. Quite a few younger sons were focused on getting drunk – one inebriated Vael was mimicking the prancing of the dancers from the side-lines, until he received a swift cuff from his father. Meanwhile, Oghren was taking full advantage of the honey mead on tap; it seemed that his weeks of sobriety had not managed to resist such free flowing alcohol. Wynne was talking to Zevran, the senior enchanter under instructions from Leliana to keep the elf away from Claudio Valisti.

Several of those seated at the top table had broken off to speak with the guests below. Finian was chattering away to Saemus Dumar, the two having met on several prior occasions. Eamon had made a beeline for Saemus' father, keen to discuss the Fereldan refugee situation.

"Come and sit on my knee, Lo," Alistair instructed, leaning back against his larger throne and parting his legs obligingly. "You _are _my new bride, after all."

Flora obediently manoeuvred between the thrones to perch on his strong thigh, settling back against his chest. Alistair wrapped an arm around her shoulders and she turned her head to kiss him on the bearded cheek.

"There's only _so_ much adherence to protocol they should expect from us," he murmured in her ear, softly. "After all, they did willingly put a stable-boy and a fisherman's daughter on the throne."

Flora glanced about her, suddenly feeling the heat of a hundred eyes on her back. At first she thought that the attention was due to her position on Alistair's lap – but then realised that the stares were swivelling between them and Loghain. The disgraced general was methodically making his way up to the top table, with only a slight limp betraying the false limb.

Loghain's betrayal of Cailan was now infamous across Thedas, and there was no guest present who was not aware of the treachery displayed at Ostagar. There were many who believed that he should have been executed for such abandonment of his king – and son-in-law – while others secretly admired his blatant attempt to usurp power for himself. The story of Loghain's futile, desperate last attempt to stop the Archdemon had spread across Thedas after the Blight ended, which did repair his reputation somewhat. However, the majority of guests eyed the new Warden with expressions ranging from mild suspicion to open hostility.

"_Traitor!"_

The cry came up from the Marcher group, thin and slurred with ale. It was repeated by several more voices, though barely discernible beneath the music. To Loghain's credit he only paused for a moment before continuing up to the top table; his expression carefully neutral.

Flora nudged Alistair gently in the ribs; he gave her a slight nod in response and cleared his throat. Leliana had prepared them for this possibility, and the opportunity that it presented.

_We can't let it be believed across Thedas that there's a division between Ferelden's Wardens and Ferelden's crown. We need to present a united front._

"Come and sit with us, Loghain," said Alistair after a moment, nodding to Flora's empty throne.

Loghain, the corner of his mouth curving upwards at the irony, took a seat and immediately grimaced as the bird poked its beak through a gap in his Warden-garb.

"They've brought out the old thrones from storage," he commented in the usual dry, northern tones. "Rowan used to complain nonstop about that bloody bird. I thought she'd had its beak filed off; clearly I was mistaken."

Alistair and Flora both gazed at him with equal solemnity; Alistair's eyes laced with a greater degree of suspicion. Loghain stared back at them for a moment, then picked up a tankard and raised it to them both with a wry smile.

"Here's to your marriage and a healthy babe," he said, and there was no disingenuity in his tone. "I hope for both of your sakes that it's a happier union than that of my daughter and Cailan. Alistair, did you spend last night down the Pearl in the company of ladies with _dubious _virtue?"

"Uh," said Alistair, slightly taken aback. "In a _brothel? _No. No, I went to see Flora, and then Teagan, Finian and I played Wicked Grace until Finn fell asleep in his cards."

"Then your marriage is off to a better start than your predecessors'," Loghain replied, taking a long swig of the tankard that he'd used to toast them.

"Loghain Mac Tir," Flora said, not quite ready to use Duncan's title of _Warden-Commander_ with this new incumbent.

"Florence Chastity Popelyn Ragenhilda Cousland," he replied, then let out a small snort. "What a mouthful. If you're thinking about shortening your name, I'd drop the _second _part. It's quite clearly not applicable."

Alistair almost laughed, then abruptly arrested the chuckle in his throat, eyeing Loghain beadily. Flora swivelled her gaze towards the group of Warden recruits clustered in a crowd of silver and navy stripes at the end of a lower table. Her eye was drawn particularly to a scruffy man with pale hair, who looked strangely familiar. He appeared to be in a drinking contest with a squat, capable looking female dwarf who had short, dark hair and distinct black patterns inked across her face. Nearby, a blonde female elf crossed her arms over her chest and rolled her eyes with a supercilious expression remarkably similar to that of Morrigan.

"You've found some new recruits?"

"Aye, we've assembled a… _motley_ crew," Loghain replied, forgetting about the bird's beak and leaning back against the throne. "Ah, this bloody chair – I'll introduce you to them tomorrow. Anyway, Flora – your bard wrote to me saying that you had a new potential recruit? I've brought down some vials of Darkspawn blood."

Flora shivered reflexively, remembering her own Joining. She still lit a candle for Daveth and Jory without fail each time she did one of her _sessions of remembrance _in the Chantry.

"I do have a potential recruit," she said, forcing the memory back into the rear of her skull. "It's…"

She glanced down at the tables in search of Oghren. The dwarf was contorted beneath one of the vast barrel-stands at the side of the room, the tap fully open and a stream of golden mead pouring directly into his mouth.

"It's…a SURPRISE," Flora finished, as Loghain narrowed his eyes at her.

"'It's a 'surprise'?" the northerner repeated, flatly. "A _surprise."_

"Yes, a surprise," retorted Alistair, immediately coming to his best friend's defence. "You know, like when you're at Ostagar and you're expecting the Royal Army to back you up and then _surprise! _they're not coming!"

"_Oooh…"_

Flora's mouth made a little _o, _her eyes expanding like silver saucers. Loghain let out a long, faintly exasperated exhalation, eyeing both of them with an air of resignation.

"Alright then, _your majesties," _he murmured, bowing his head once more. "I eagerly anticipate the revealing of your '_surprise' recruit tomorrow_ morning. And Alistair?"

The king eyed his former arch-nemesis, beadily. "Yes?"

"Congratulations. Your bride's a beauty."

With a grunt of effort, Loghain manoeuvred his wooden leg out from beneath the table and rose to his feet; tramping back down to where Leonie Caron and the rest of the recruits were sitting. After being witnessed in what appeared to be civil conversation with the king and queen; there were no more cries of _traitor! _accompanying Loghain to his seat.

Alistair anchored his arm more tightly around Flora's waist as she shifted on his thigh. Glancing at her face, he noticed her biting anxiously at her lower lip and reached up; rubbing his thumb over the full, wide softness of her Cousland mouth.

"My love?"

"I hope Oghren's Joining goes well tomorrow," she whispered, Daveth's bulging-eyed face rising to the forefront of her memory once again. "Alistair, what if – what if- "

"He'll be _fine," _Alistair replied, firmly. "I've seen the dwarf down a bottle of fire-whiskey in less time than it took to uncork it. He's got a stomach lined with iron."

"You think so?"

"Of course, sweetheart." There was so much confidence in Alistair's reply that Flora found herself reassured; she leaned her head against his shoulder and he pressed a kiss to her cloud of dark red hair.

When the Fereldan girls had finished their set of native dances, they withdrew – blushing with delight - to loud applause and slightly drunken cheers. Silver coins in small lace pouches were tossed towards them, which they stopped to collect with squeals of delight.

Meanwhile, Eamon had returned to the top table smiling, having secured a lucrative lumber deal with the Trevelyans. He took his seat beside Alistair, refilling the king's tankard with ale and the queen's smaller cup with apple-water.

"Eamon," Alistair murmured, leaning towards his chancellor while keeping a tight grip on his wife. "Who's going to be the Chantry sister in with me and Flo tonight?"

"Do you really want to know?" the arl replied, taking a long gulp from his own tankard.

"Not the member of the Landsmeet,"Alistair said, hastily. "Just the sister. It's not going to be Grand Cleric Elemena is it?"

"No," said Eamon, a wry smile curling behind his silver beard. "The Grand Cleric would sadly be useless for this particular purpose; she's deaf as a post_._"

The _implication_ of this comment saw Alistair go a fraction paler. The king reached for his tankard and downed it with a haste that Oghren would have admired. Flora, who was utterly nonchalant about their upcoming audience, sipped at her apple-water and eyed her husband with mild trepidation.

Just then, there was a ripple of surprise and anticipation through the audience; who were growing merrier and less bothered about old rivalries as the strong Denerim mead took its effect.

The cause of their delight soon became apparent. The delegation from Rivain had brought along a group of native dancers, a sextet of handsome women with dark hair in oiled curls. Their noses and ears were decorated with gold, and their bodies were covered by _very little._ They began to dance to the languid piping of the accompanying musicians; wrists twirling and golden brackets rattling.

"Maker's Breath!" hissed Alistair, rapidly averting his eyes to the ceiling. "Eamon, I thought this was going to be a _family friendly _evening."

Eamon was openly laughing while trying not to look too closely, knowing that Isolde would be glaring at him from where she was sitting with Bann Reginalda and Leonas' daughter, Habren.

"I knew that they were bringing _entertainment,_ I didn't realise quite what _sort_ it would be."

"But I'm a _married man_, now," replied Alistair, in the tone of a particularly prudish Chantry sister. "I shouldn't be witnessing ladies in states of… _undress!"_

Eamon snorted, and then received a dagger-like stare from Isolde. Paling, the arl excused himself and went to appease his wife.

Flora, conversely, was eyeing the golden piercings speckled across the women's bodies. Her own body had not tolerated any piercing while under the jurisdiction of the spirits – the holes would simply close back up – but she was fascinated to learn_ how many _parts of the human body could be punctured.

"Like what you see, _carina?" _purred a familiar voice from over her right shoulder. Zevran had slunk his way up to the top table and was now lounging in Fergus' chair; eyes not moving from the dancers' undulating bodies.

Flora reached out and touched the elf's right ear, where a golden hoop identical to the one he had given her dangled.

"I knew you could have holes put in your ears," she breathed, fascinated. "I didn't realise you could get one in your _nose. _Or your _tongue."_

"No, I don't imagine there's much of that going on in Herring," Zevran murmured, dark eyes twinkling. "Look, that one has a chain through her _belly button."_

"Ooooh! Do you think that hurt?!"

"Not as much as the piercing sported by the lovely lady on the far right." The elf gave her a little nudge, snickering.

Flora followed his finger and her eyebrows rapidly shot into her hairline. She elbowed Alistair – who had been gazing determinedly at his wife's swollen stomach for the duration of the dance – and gestured for him to look. He did so, and then let out a strangled squawk.

"_Maker's Breath," _Alistair croaked, ducking back down like an arrow had been shot at his head. "Well, that is _definitely _out of the question, Lo. The baby needs to _feed _off those! And stop making me look at other naked ladies. I only want to look at you!"

Flora and Zevran cackled in unison, the elf reaching out to run his slender fingers affectionately down Flora's bare arm.

"Piercings aside, I think you would look delicious in the Rivaini style of dress," he purred, watching Alistair's face closely.

Flora shot him a slightly incredulous look, head swivelling between the taut, glistening muscle of the dancers' exposed stomachs, and her own bloated belly.

"Delicious? I'd look _ridiculous," _she said, plaintively. "Oghren said I was the size of a pony earlier. He wasn't wrong!"

"You're the most beautiful creature on Thedas, Lo," Alistair replied, immediate and earnest. "The dwarf was probably half-intoxicated."

Delighted, Flora put her arms around her husband's neck and kissed him on the cheek.

"Once my body gets back to normal," she whispered in Alistair's ear, absentmindedly rubbing the fur of his collar between her fingers. "I'll wear anything you want. Even a _Rivaini belly-dancer outfit."_

Alistair, who had been in the middle of gulping down his fourth flagon of mead, spluttered and spilt the remainder down the front of his leather tunic. Fortunately, it was dark enough that the stain was only visible at a close distance.

"_Flora," _he groaned, replacing the tankard on the table with an unsteady hand. "You can't _say _things like that while sitting half-naked on my knee."

"What did she say?" demanded the elf, who had been distracted by a servant dropping a tray of empty tankards. _"What did she say?"_

Fortunately, the divisive Rivaini dancers soon made their exit, undulating across the flagstones. Half of the Landsmeet had emptied their pockets; many of the guests still seemed speechless. The highly religious Vael clan had their hands over their eyes, under strict instruction from their patriarch.

Next came to the forefront a nervous looking young man with Marcher colouring and unkempt straw-like hair. He wore the colours of House Trevelyan but lacked the luxuriant trimmings of the bann's immediate family – this was perhaps some minor relative. The gangly youth cleared his throat; a distinct tremor in his voice as he directed his words to the ceiling of the great hall.

"This dance is dedicated to _Florence the Fair," _he announced, with equal parts nervousness and pride. "It is a dance from my home village, called _The Fish Dance."_

An intrigued Flora swivelled herself to face the audience; shuffling forwards as far as she could go on Alistair's knee and leaning her elbows on the table. Fergus, who had taken Finian's seat on seeing that the elf had sprawled himself across his own, looked genuinely disconcerted.

"The _fish_ dance," the teyrn repeated, incredulously. "I've never heard of such a custom. What do you think- "

A lively jig sprung up from the minstrels in the corner as eight men positioned themselves in geometric formation on the flagstones. With a single cohesive shout, they produced a fish in their right hand and held it high in the air.

"_Hey, hey!"_

With a resounding _slap _against the plump, scaled bodies of the fish; the men then threw them into the air and caught the descending fish of their neighbour.

"_Hey, hey!"_

Finian, whose Orlesian-trained etiquette was not able to cope with the strain of appearing neutral when faced with the _fish dance, _nearly fell off the lower bench in hysterics; eye patch sliding out of place. Leliana –the true master of Orlesian etiquette - smiled with polite interest, while muttering under her breath to Wynne. Up at the top table Zevran was oddly enchanted; his eyes glued to the leather-clad posteriors of the Marcher men.

Flora, still perched on Alistair's knee, eyed the unfortunate fish as they were slapped thoroughly before being thrown into the air. Despite the fact that she had been personally responsible for the deaths of _thousands _of fish during her tenure at Herring; at least their deaths had been meaningful – rather than for _comedic antics._

"Is this the sort of thing they do in Herring, pup?" Fergus asked her, his eyebrows fully elevated.

Flora wrinkled her nose, trying to envision her taciturn father and his brethren throwing the day's catch through the air while prancing merrily around on the rocky beach.

"No," she said after a moment, solemnly. "No, it is not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol Flora was fully about to tell Loghain that Oghren was the proposed Warden candidate… then she sees him passed out drunk on the floor and is like ABORT MISSION "IT'S A SURPRISE!" instead, hehehe.
> 
> This was a fun chapter to write! Poor Alistair is taking being a married man very seriously when it comes to looking at half-naked dancers, hahaha. We'll have to see how well his resolve fares when Isabela swings back into town, lol. The fish dance is inspired by my memories of doing Welsh dancing when I was younger – there was one dance called jac-y-do (jackdaw), and another called ceiliog rhedyn (grasshopper), and another called robin ddiog (lazy robin). SO WHY NOT FISH? Hahahaha


	61. Like Iron To A Lodestone

The men from the Marches continued to jig around in the centre of the great hall, tossing the fish between them while slapping their leather-clad thighs, heartily. Despite her inherent disapproval of the fish being _wasted_ instead of consumed, Flora still approved of the hail to her Herring upbringing.

_We're surrounded by the colours and emblems of the Couslands, _she thought to herself as she slithered off Alistair's knee, rising to her feet as the music came to a halt and the dancers bowed deeply. _Yet there's nothing of Herring here, save for myself. And Herring is what made me, not Highever._

The chattering around the hall faded away as the guests broke off their conversations and stared at the queen as she made her way down the steps, padding barefoot over the flagstones towards the dancers. The Marcher youths – who were indeed minor members of their house, brought along to squire for more important Trevelyans – were frozen in place, wide-eyed.

Flora halted before them and smiled, her pale gaze moving from one to the other in turn.

"Thank you for showing me your _fish dance_," she said, soft and earnest. "I enjoyed it a lot. Is it a local custom from your home?"

One of the youths mouthed for a moment, trying frantically to grasp at the words like a slippery bar of animal-fat soap. The rest of the great hall had fallen silent, watching the exchange between queen and awestruck entertainers.

"Yes, m-m-ma'am –_ your majesty," _stammered the tallest youth, who had ginger curls falling to his collar. "It's from our home village, Monteith. Near Ostwick."

"Is that on the coast?"

"No, my lady – on Lake Osterling. Deepest body o' water in the Marches."

This was enough to fascinate Flora, her eyes expanding like saucers.

"The deepest – _oh! _Do you – do you _fish_ in it?"

"Aye, ma'am."

"Tell me what kind of fish live in the deepest lake in the Marches!"

Flora stayed with the awestruck youths for the next half-candle, withdrawing to the chairs at the side of the room and listening avidly. They were hesitant at first, mumbling only brief responses to her prompted questions. However – once they had overcome their fear of her haughty, cool-eyed beauty – they realised that her interest in their pastime was genuine. Soon after, their answers became longer and more enthused, faces flushed and gestures animated. Flora was so fascinated that she barely registered the end of the organised entertainment; couples taking to the open space between the tables to dance.

The Fereldan musicians, eager to re-stake their claim, struck up a series of familiar folk dances. Many lords led their ladies out to dance – and vice versa. The courteous Fergus rose and went to Leliana, offering her his hand gallantly. The bard accepted with decorous gratitude, stepping out onto the flagstones alongside the teyrn. Fergus could feel the eyes of several dozen men burning into his tunic; the lovely Leliana had captured the slightly inebriated attentions of several minor banns over the course of the evening.

Eamon also rose to his feet and went to join Isolde after she shot him a pointed look - though he only led his wife onto the floor after a slower number had begun. They were joined by Finian and Wynne; the latter following the former's lead with surprising agility and grace considering her advanced years. The senior enchanter soon proved herself to be an elegant dance partner, with a knowledge of step and rhythm that impressed even the Orlesian-trained Finian.

Loghain was as likely to join in the dancing as he was to declare allegiance to Orlais and the Empress Celene. He sat beside Leonie Caron – who at least was tapping her toe to the beat of the music – and inspected the bottom of his tankard with a slightly irate expression. Zevran leaned against a pillar at the side of the room, flirting casually with one of the Rivaini dancers. Despite the elf's apparent dedication to the ebon-haired beauty before him, his gaze kept flitting about the chamber; continuously on the lookout for threats.

The elf was not the only one keeping an eye out for potential trouble. Alistair was still seated on the throne at the top table, his powerful frame leaning forward with knees wide apart; gaze focused keen and hawk-like on his former sister-warden and new wife. Flora was still seated amongst the men of the Marches, listening enthralled to their tales of deep-lake fishing. Despite knowing that no person in the room save for the soldiers (Zevran and Leliana too, undoubtedly) were armed; Alistair could not help but see the vulnerability of Flora's slender, naked back, the delicate line of her neck exposed as she pulled her hair thoughtlessly over her shoulder. The swell of her stomach, full of a babe already starting to outgrow the petite frame of it's mother, only seemed to make her an easier target.

Unable to stop these intrusive thoughts, Alistair scowled to himself; wondering if he should send a pair of Royal Guard to stand nearby, ready to intervene if necessary.

"Relax, son. She's the _Hero of Ferelden, _ender of the Fifth Blight. There's not a man in the room who wishes her harm."

The voice belonged to Teagan, who had noticed Alistair's deep-set glower and taken it upon himself to sit in Eamon's vacated chair. Alistair blinked, startled, turning his head to gaze at the man whom he viewed as an uncle.

"Plus, she's with child. No man would dare risk his place with the Maker by bringing harm to an unborn babe."

"Thomas Howe did," muttered Alistair, not entirely reassured by Teagan's comment. The bann gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, his green Guerrin eyes settling on Alistair's anxious profile.

"Aye lad, but his was a personal grudge. There's no one here that claims similar against the lass."

"What about the other Howe brother?" countered the king, swiftly. "Nathaniel. He's still out there, somewhere."

"But not _in here,"_ murmured the bann, placing a comforting hand on Alistair's leather clad elbow. "Try and relax. She's _fine."_

Alistair nodded, then took another long gulp of ale; making a conscious effort to calm himself.

"You're right, uncle. Who's _that?"_

Despite his uncle's earnest attempts to reassure his nerves, the king could not help but bristle as a bearded man clad in mustard yellow approached Flora with a confident stride. The noble appeared to be in his early thirties, one signet-ringed hand rising to push auburn hair away from his smiling face. As he bowed deeply before the new queen of Ferelden, Alistair recognised the handsome features as belonging to Arl Myrddin; a young, outspoken member of the Landsmeet.

"That's Myrddin, of the southern Bannorn," Teagan explained, simultaneous to Alistair's realisation. "He opposed Loghain from the beginning; you can trust him."

Alistair narrowed his eyes, leaning forward slightly.

"I know him," he said, a note of outrage creeping into his tone. "He - he _fancies _Flo!"

Teagan coughed, directing his gaze up to the ceiling.

"There are many who harbour such feelings for_ your wife, _Alistair," he said, deliberately emphasising the last few words to help embed Flora as such in his own mind. "She's kind, brave and beautiful. Most of the Landsmeet would have married her if she'd not been – you know. Bound to you."

"Myrddin wrote her a ridiculous love letter when she was staying at Revanloch. She had no idea what it said; I had to _read it for her," _Alistair complained, clearly not having listened to a word. "What does he want _now?"_

It soon became apparent what the young, confident arl wanted. With a smile spread across his bearded face, Arl Myrddin made a gesture towards the dance floor; then raised his eyebrows towards Flora, one hand held out. Flora gazed back at him, her own brow furrowed, then returned his offer with a polite smile and a small shake of the head.

After a few more unsuccessful attempts to cajole her into a dance, the handsome arl bent to kiss her hand and made a dignified retreat. Flora returned her attention to the fishermen from the opposite coast of the Waking Sea.

"_I _was going to ask Lo to dance," Alistair hissed in outrage to his uncle, fingers clamped around the neck of his goblet as though ready to hurl it across the room at Arl Myrddin's ginger head. "I was just waiting for the right song."

A short time later, Flora was still listening, fascinated, to the men of the Marches. They were in the middle of describing one particularly strange catch – a tentacled creature with the face of a man – when they came to a simultaneous halt; clambering to their feet with heads bowed. Flora glanced curiously over her shoulder, only to see Alistair approaching at rapid pace over the flagstones. Those on the dance-floor drew to the side to let him pass, sneaking quick glances at Ferelden's new king as he strode determinedly towards his wife.

Flora smiled reflexively on seeing her best friend approach. The candlelight caught the gold of the crown, the bronze of his hair and warmed the olive tones of Alistair's skin; gleaming like something taken fresh from the forge. His kind hazel eyes – which balanced the natural arrogance of his Marician face – were focused on her, bruised with affection.

"My love," he murmured, and then held out his hand beseechingly. "Will you dance with me?"

Although Flora felt a small twinge of nervousness – _so many people! so many judgemental eyes on her unwieldy body!_– she would never deny Alistair anything before such a crucial audience. She beamed up at him, reaching out to twine her fingers with his.

As Flora rose, Alistair drew her tenderly against his chest, steering her in a gentle meander out onto the flagstones. The space between the tables cleared; guests hastily making room for the newlywed royal couple. The musicians, after a pointed glare from Leliana, segued into a sweet, melancholic ballad with a strange and shifting melody; written in the familiar cadence of the northern coast.

"Thank you, Lo."

Flora gazed up at her former brother-warden, bemused. He was holding her gently by the waist as they rotated on the flagstones, the movement slow and intimate.

"Eh?"

"I remember seeing Eamon dance with Isolde when they got married," Alistair replied softly, the haze of reminiscence clinging to the words. "I was helping the kitchen staff clear away empty tankards. The music started and he led her out into the middle of the room - I'd never seen the arl look so proud in his life."

Flora reached up, broaching the foot of space in their heights to touch her husband's bearded jaw.

"I know our wedding day has turned into a bit of a spectacle," Alistair muttered, a slight flush rising to his cheeks as he turned her with exceptional care. "But I… I wanted to dance with you, just once. Because I _am_ the proudest man in Thedas, with you at my side."

As Flora came around to face him once more she beamed, at once made shy and delighted by his comment. Alistair gazed down at her for several moments, intense and purposeful; and then smiled back, the grin lighting up his face like sunrise breaking over the city walls.

As the king of Ferelden manoeuvred his new queen carefully around the flagstones, both seemed unaware of the eyes of Thedas fixated on them. Despite the ever-present undercurrent of factional division, old tensions and national rivalries; the assembled guests could not help but feel benevolent towards the handsome young Theirin and his full-bellied bride. The cool disdain that Flora had worn earlier (one of Leliana's permitted expressions) had melted away in the warmth of her husband's naked adoration; she basked in his gaze like a crimson-furred cat, arching herself towards his touch.

At the side of the room, Zevran leaned against a stone bust and ran his fingers compulsively over the hilt of his dagger.

"They look very well together, don't they?"

Leliana smiled at him from the other side of the bust, the bard's mouth curling upwards lazily. Despite having spent the past hour dancing with a selection of Thedas' most powerful men and women, she was still wholly composed; not a single hair out of place.

"_Eh, amor?"_

"Our two Wardens. _Former _Wardens. They are well-matched."

Leliana canted her head towards where Alistair had drawn Flora against his chest, swaying gently from foot to foot like a fishing boat moored in shallow waters. As they watched, the king pressed a tender kiss to the top of his queen's head.

"He looks a grown man already," agreed Zevran, eyes sliding rapidly away towards the trestle tables. "And her beauty will only grow as she leaves behind adolescence and… becomes a woman."

Leliana reached out and placed her fingers gently on the elf's elbow, her limpid eyes bright with concern.

"Are you alright, _mon chéri_?"

The elf paused a moment before replying, his expression caught somewhere in the no man's land between regret and reminiscence.

"Following _mi florita_ was the first choice I ever made of my own free will," he said, softly. "Ironic, that I now find myself a self-made prisoner; trapped by my own sentiment."

Out on the centre of the flagstones, Flora tilted her face expectantly up towards Alistair. In response he obediently bent his head towards her, letting her whisper something into his ear. A few moments later he laughed out loud, one hand dropping to caress his wife's bare back.

"She was always meant for him, wasn't she?" Zevran continued quietly, a note of resignation in his words. "There would never have been any chance for me."

Leliana did not reply immediately, since it was most likely true. The bard had known Alistair and Flora almost the longest of all the companions – second only to Morrigan. The perceptive woman had picked up almost immediately on the magnetic undercurrent between brother and sister warden; long before they themselves did.

"_Oui_: like iron to a lodestone," she agreed, eventually.

Zevran inclined his head with a rueful smile, and made to set towards the ale-barrels.

Once the sweet, simple melody came to an end Flora put her arms about Alistair's neck and embraced him, curling her fingers into the fur sewn around his collar. Alistair rested his hands on her hips, fingers moving compulsively over the form-fitting leather. There was a sinking feeling in his stomach; he had caught sight of Eamon's pointed stare across the flagstones.

"I think the time has come for us to be temporarily parted, my love," he murmured into Flora's ear, hoping that his words were not wavering. "I'll… see you in the bedchamber. Along with our _audience, _of course."

Flora was not fooled by the light-heartedness in Alistair's tone, and she shot him an anxious little glance from beneath her eyelashes.

"It'll be alright," she whispered, seeing Leliana approach with a determined expression. "See you in a bit."

There was a brief moment of uncertainty in the great hall as the newlyweds were led towards separate archways. The _ending_ of the wedding day was common tradition across Thedas – the placing of a virginal bride in her marital bed, the escorting of the groom into the bedchamber – but since _this _bride was heavily weighed down with her husband's child, the ritual seemed a little redundant.

However, the atmosphere had changed by the time that Alistair and Flora reached their separate exits; he accompanied by the men of the King's Council and she by Leliana and several noblewomen. Despite the queen quite clearly _not_ being a virgin, it was still an impending _consummation; _and thus some of the traditional bawdiness was expected.

Alistair, his teeth gritted, was escorted from the chamber with comments such as _enjoy your ride on the crimson mare! _and _best wishes for your stay in Highever! _echoing behind him. As the king left, he took hold of a fortifying bottle of Antivan brandy, not bothering with the accompanying tankard.

Flora – whose status as a Hero of Ferelden granted her some additional measure of respect beyond that of generic royal bride – was spared a plethora of over-familiar remarks. This was also due in no small part to Fergus' narrowed grey-blue stare sweeping across the assembled guests; silently warning them off making overly lewd comments on the act itself. Instead, the audience offered merely some lascivious advice to the bride as she passed between their ranks.

"_Lie back and think of Ferelden, your majesty!"_

"_I hear the Theirins are well-hung, my lady. Care to confirm or deny?"_

The confused Flora was unsure how to respond and so simply ignored them, lifting her chin and allowing Leliana to lead her from the great hall. They were accompanied by several noblewomen, including Isolde Guerrin, Bann Reginalda and Habren Bryland; the latter two chattering in low, excited tones.

They travelled along one of the wide stone passages that ran down the side of the great hall, a lofty corridor with great spiked-iron rings blazing with candlelight high overhead. The Royal Guard flanking the corridor passed their pikes from hand to hand in respect; eyes lowered in deference to their new, young queen.

The noise of the revellers gradually faded away, absorbed by the thick stone walls of the castle. Clutching Leliana's dry, scented palm Flora padded dutifully in her wake; trying not to limp too extensively. The long day had taken its toll on her strapped knee, and it was voicing its protest through a combination of twinges and sharp, jabbing pains.

Once they had reached the great stained glass Calenhad window, Leliana noticed that her accomplice was lagging behind. The bard paused for a moment, moonlight filtering through the crystallised glass and casting her face in a wash of colour. Flora came to a halt, her flushed cheeks puffed out with effort. Behind her, Bann Reginalda, Isolde and Habren Bryland also stopped in a rustle of velvet and ruffled silk.

"You've done very well today, _ma petite," _Leliana murmured, her voice soft and affectionate. "Not much longer now."

Conscious of Flora's sore knee, the bard slowed her pace a fraction. She took the stone staircase leading up to the Royal Corridor one red-carpeted step at a time, letting Flora have a rest halfway up.

"I always felt sorry for the poor deer," Reginalda murmured, squinting her lined, clever eyes up at the hunted _halla _tapestry that hung at the end of the royal passageway. "Why don't you ask Alistair to replace it with something a bit more _cheerful_, my dear?"

Flora followed the bann's stare up at the moth-eaten tapestry, her gaze moving from the snarling Mabari to the terrified, cringing _halla._

"Hm," she replied, vaguely. "Maybe."

"One would never find such _crude _displays of art in Orlais," Isolde retorted, unable to stop herself from showing off her knowledge. "At Redcliffe Castle, we have a beautiful pair of stained-glass windows imported from Val Royeaux, depicting a black and a white swan facing each other."

"Did they survive the carnage caused by your son's demonic possession?" Habren Bryland asked sweetly, her dark eyes flashing.

Isolde let out a little huff of displeasure, a faint flush blossoming on her cheeks.

"Redcliffe Castle looked beautiful when it was decorated for Satinalia," Flora offered, feeling sorry for Arl Eamon's wife. "Will you help to decorate the Royal Palace for Satinalia this year?"

Isolde blinked and then stammered a quick, pleased assent, the flush on her cheeks deepening.

Leliana squeezed Flora's palm briefly, leading her down the wide corridor past the laurel-painted doorway leading to the Cousland quarters. Guilluame, the chief steward, was waiting patiently beside the thick, studded oak doors that made entrance into the Royal bedchamber. On seeing Flora, he bowed very low; twirling the ends of his oiled moustache.

"Congratulations, your majesty," he murmured, returning upright with a wry smile. "It is good to see you take your rightful place at the king's side."

Flora gave a little nod, wondering if their audience already lay in wait behind the sealed oak doors.

"The king will be along in a half-candle," Leliana informed the steward briskly, conscious of the waning minutes. "Is all prepared within?"

"Yes, my lady" confirmed Guillaume, with a small inclination of his bearded chin. "All is laid out and set up according to the traditional guidelines."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol it seems so disrespectful to shout crude remarks at the bride and groom – but it was totally expected at a Medieval wedding, lol. The only vestiges of that lewdness found in today's weddings is probably the rude stories in a best man's speech, haha.
> 
> I just imagine Flora getting this love letter from the admiring Arl Myrddin (who's a minor NPC from the DA tabletop RPG) – she can't read his writing and has no idea what it says, so poor old Alistair has to translate it for her, raging inwardly all the while, lol. LITERACY PRACTICE!
> 
> Sooooooooo next chapter – THE WEDDING NIGHT! Finally! Hahaha, poor old Alistair – I'm not sure taking the entire bottle of Antivan brandy was a good idea…
> 
> Oh, btw a lodestone is a naturally magnetised piece of stone, lol


	62. The Wedding Night

The guards hastened to open the doors, and Leliana promptly led the way into the Royal Bedchamber. There were no other people present within the stark, rustic space, yet clearly the servants had been busy – like the entrance and great halls, the room had been embellished with additional decoration._ Unlike_ those previous chambers, there were no Cousland and Theirin emblems plastered about the walls; these augmentations were for a older, more primitive purpose.

Hazelnuts strung onto threads had been hung at the windows and above the door frame; bushels of young green corn stalks stood in bronze containers at the corners of the room. Long, perfumed branches of freshly-harvested hazel had been placed on top of the mantelpiece and on the window bench. Pine cones had been scattered amidst the animal furs lying across the bed, and sprigs of mistletoe strewn over the cushions.

Flora came to an astonished halt, her eyes moving about the chamber. She was so distracted by the vegetative decoration that she barely paid heed to the privacy screen, made from delicate, translucent vellum stretched across a willow frame; and the two wooden chairs placed discretely at its side.

"It looks like a garden in here," Flora breathed, lifting the crown from her head and grimacing as several long strands of hair rose with it, tangled within the intricate curls of gold. Habren Bryland stepped forward, rather shyly, and helped Flora to disengage her hair from the diadem.

"They're fertility symbols," replied Leliana briskly, closing the door in an overeager guard's face and rummaging about in her sleeves. Then, when Flora shot Leliana a slightly bemused look – one hand on her full stomach - the bard let out a little chuckle.

"It's traditional, _ma cherie. _Anyway, think of the _future _children that you and Alistair will be producing!"

"_Future children?"_ Flora replied, slightly dazed. "More? More than this?"

Bann Reginalda – who had deliberately pursued a lifestyle that would result in no heirs – snorted, rummaging in her pocket to retrieve a vial of glimmering water.

"Let the lass concentrate on the babe in her belly," she commented wryly, uncorking the sacred tincture and heading over to the bed. "She's got decades to worry about producing a litter of Theirin pups."

"_A litter?" _repeated Flora, her eyes wide. "How many in a litter?"

"Six to eight?"

"_Gah!"_

Meanwhile, Isolde was taking advantage of this rare access to the Royal Bedchamber to scan her surroundings; taking careful note of every decorative detail. Although privately she thought Fereldan design to be crude and primitive compared to her native Orlais; she still desired to be abreast of the Royal taste in fashion. Her pale blue eyes noted the bearskins spread over the bed, the maroon and white patterned blankets and the tan murals daubed across the walls, appraising and analysing.

As Bann Reginalda sprinkled the blessed Chantry water across the marital bed, humming a tuneless rendition of _Bones in the Sand; _Leliana withdrew a thin, wickedly sharp blade and advanced towards Flora.

"Hold your hair atop your head, keep still," she began, eyeing the dark leather clinging to the queen's skin. "And _don't breathe. _This blade is sharper than Wynne's tongue."

Flora obediently took a gulp of air and held it, twisting up her mass of hair into a thick bundle and holding it above her ears. Leliana crouched beside her and began, very carefully, to slice the leather from around her hips. The blade cut through the tiny stitches like butter, and – piece by piece- the Alamarri wedding gown fell away in swathes of dark calfskin. The bodice came away last and Flora inhaled slightly in relief, standing naked and barefoot amidst a pool of cut leather. It was a testament to Leliana's skill that she had not left a single nick on Flora's skin, despite the tenacious adherence of gown to flesh.

"It's almost a shame that the dress is ruined now," commented Reginalda, capping the holy water briskly and tucking it away. "You looked like something from an old legend clad in it, Florence."

"Weren't you embarrassed about – about how _revealing _it was, in front of all those people?" Habren asked, curious. Leonas' daughter was also astonished at Flora's utter nonchalance at being unclothed in front of three noblewomen who were relative strangers. Flora's ambivalence was a legacy of cramped quarters and communal dormitories; privacy of one's body was an unknown concept in both Herring and the Circle.

"Eh. No, not really."

Flora gave a little Herring shrug, shaking her head as she wandered across to the mantelpiece; her hair falling in a tangled mass of dark red to her hips. She picked up a hazelnut and pressed it against the stone edge of the mantel to crack it, popping the raw fruit into her mouth with a slightly mindless expression.

"_Ma crevette_, don't eat too much, or you'll _bloat," _instructed Leliana, disposing of the scraps of leather by booting them swiftly underneath the bed.

Unsure if she could resist the temptation to eat every _fertility-boosting_ food item in the room, Flora turned away and padded barefoot across the flagstones. Isolde and Habren were tucking what appeared to be silver Chantry symbols between the blankets of the bed. Once this was done, Habren leaned across the cushions and tied the leather strap that had hand-fasted the royal union in an elaborate bow around the bed-post.

Whilst the noblewomen were busying themselves, Flora sat down on the cushions of the bench beneath the recently-widened window, peering down at the moonlit estuary below. The Denerim main canal seemed far more crowded than usual, with several dozen tall ships anchored at its docks. Clearly, many of the wedding guests had taken advantage of the favourable summer climate to sail from their native lands to the shores of Ferelden. The city itself still blazed with torchlight despite the lateness of the hour, and Flora imagined that the taverns were doing a roaring trade. She was suddenly glad that she and Alistair had shared their wedding day so openly with the public – Denerim was in sore need of reason to celebrate after the distress and fear of the past year.

"Usually, lass, we ladies would be mentally preparing you for the _delights _of marital conjugation with your new husband," Reginalda commented dryly, taking a long swig of whiskey from a hip flask as she stepped back from the bed. "You know; traumatise the blushing bride with a few horror stories. But a little bird tells me thatyou and Alistair are…_ well acquainted_ with one another."

This was a delicate way of stating the fact that the entire Landsmeet and most of the city were aware that the young Theirin and Cousland were like a pair of insatiable little rabbits when it came to the bedchamber. Leliana, who read the latent meaning of the bann's comment, let out a feminine snort of affirmation. Flora, who had no idea what the bann was talking about – she certainly had no idea what _conjugation_ meant - smiled vaguely and hoped that this was response enough.

"Flora! Over here," commanded Leliana, whose nerves were beginning to wear thin from the sheer pressure of overseeing the bride from dawn to dusk. _"Ma belle fleur. _One more outfit change for the day, and then it will all be over."

_Over for you, _Flora thought, eyeing the two chairs and privacy screen set to one side of the bed as she passed by. The baby gave an insistent kick to her kidney and she flinched, trying to appease it with a pat.

"_Your bridal nightgown!" _declared Leliana triumphantly; holding up what appeared to be a mass of sheer, beribboned material, festooned with gauzy flowers and an excess of frills. A slightly alarmed Flora came to a halt before the lay sister, her expression wary.

"I… thought I'd just wear my usual night things," she said, letting Leliana wrap the gauzy nightgown around her shoulders. "You know, the striped pyjamas. Or the tunic with the Mabari stitched on the front."

"On your _wedding night?" _demanded Leliana, loosely knotting strands of pink ribbon into a bow to close the front of the gown._ "Non!"_

Flora eyed herself in the long mirror beside the hearth, immediately hating every silky, frilly beribboned inch. Even she would not dare to venture down the corridor on a nocturnal wander clad in _this _skimpy offering. It was transparent enough to show her swollen breasts, plump belly and the cleft of her legs; even the leather strap around her knee was visible. She felt more naked than if she were _actually _naked, like a prize pig dressed incongruously in pink ruffles.

"Congratulations, lay-sister," commented Reginalda dryly, as Leliana raked brutal fingers through a yelping Flora's hair to remove a day's worth of tangles. "You've found the only gown in Thedas _more _revealing than the one the lass got married in."

"Is this type of thing what the Alamarri brides would have worn?" Flora croaked, grimacing as the pearl-edged collar was pulled tight around her neck.

"_Non, _they would have gone naked," replied Leliana, giving up on the fingers and going to find a hairbrush. By the time that she had turned back to Flora, the new queen wore nothing but her bare skin and a mulish expression; the ruffled silk pooled at her feet.

"Then _I'm_ going to go naked too," Flora declared, face alight with the Herring stubbornness that manifested on carefully selected occasions. "I'm an Alamarri bride today. You can have that frilly _thing_ as a present."

Leliana eyed the young Cousland, recognised the stoic rigidity in Flora's pale stare; and did not bother to argue.

"Fine," the lay sister replied, wielding the hairbrush like a weapon. "Such a beautiful gown should be worn by one who truly _appreciates _it. Quick, quick – into bed! I can hear the _menfolk _approaching."

"Oh no! Not _the menfolk_," commented Reginalda, amused that Leliana had uttered the warning in the same panicked tones as she would warn of the approach of the Darkspawn. "Oh dear."

Sure enough, the sounds of a raucous group came echoing down the corridor. There was laughter and much clinking of tankards, accompanied by the heavy shuffle of leather boots against stone.

The new queen of Ferelden ambled across the flagstones and clambered into bed, dislodging several pine cones and Chantry symbols as she pulled back the blankets. Leliana swooped to replace the fallen items, while Isolde and Habren darted about to hastily extinguish the candlesticks. Soon, the only light in the chamber came from the great hearth; spilling in mellow ochre waves across the bearskin rug and casting the marital bed in a warm, inviting glow.

Sitting in the midst of the vast mattress, Flora tugged the furs up over her bare thighs. As voices sounded from outside the door, she let her hair fall loose; leaning back against the cushions and lifting her chin in the direction of the room's arched entrance.

_Deep breath, chin up, eyes straight._

The men of the Landsmeet spilled into the room like a pack of Mabari, laughing and jesting amongst themselves. They brought with them a miasma of ale, joviality and relief – the day had gone well, and Ferelden had made a strong impression in the eyes of their foreign guests. Regional accents were emerging more strongly in the wake of the free-flowing honey mead; backs were being clapped and gleeful anecdotes from the day exchanged. Several dogs tumbled in with them, barking excitedly as they picked up on the rambunctiousness of their masters.

"Where's the bride?" demanded the Arl of the Western Hills, a drunken slur to his words. "We've got a man here more than ready to warm his bride in the marital bed."

"The Queen of Ferelden is here," Leliana replied imperiously, drawing to the side of the room with the other women. "And she awaits her husband."

The men of the Landsmeet came to a halt in a crowd of leather, fur and Mabari hounds; gazing at the great four poster bed that dominated the chamber. As Leliana had announced, the queen was _indeed_ awaiting her husband. She was leaning back against the cushions, a fur draped casually across her bare thighs. Her dark red hair, in stark contrast to the creamy pallor of her skin, fell over her shoulders; like tendrils of the fire had crawled out of the hearth. She was utterly unbothered about her nakedness: bare breasted and swollen-bellied. She raised her solemn face, the wide Cousland mouth curled in its customary, sulky pout. The maroon _kaddis_ mark was still painted beneath her gold-flecked eye; her pale gaze moving thoughtfully from one face to the next. There was something strangely provocative in the contrast between the haughty refinement of the queen's face, and the lush wantonness of her exposed body. 

"_Maker's Breath."_ One bann's incredulous voice rose up from near the back of the crowd. "Look at that."

"_That _– that'sh my wife!"

Supported by an apologetic Teagan, Alistair elbowed his way through the men of the Landsmeet; letting the empty bottle of Antivan brandy drop to the flagstones. Finian appeared behind him, halfway between giggling and frenetic apology, mouthing something incomprehensible to his little sister.

Thunderclouds began to settle over Leliana's face as she realised that Alistair had decided to self-medicate his nervousness with copious amounts of alcohol.

"The _mosht beautiful _girl in … _hic!_ Thedas," Alistair declared, looking around in confusion for the bottle before taking an unsteady step forwards. "Isn't she, uncle?"

The king hiccupped, swaying slightly on his feet as he came to a pause.

"Aye, lad," croaked Teagan, trying to direct the neck of a water-pouch to his nephew's mouth. "Take a swig of this."

Flora stared at Alistair, wide-eyed and astonished. Fergus rounded the edge of the crowd, approaching the bed and crouching down to whisper into her ear.

"Sorry, Floss – I tried to slow him down, but he necked the entire bottle in about six gulps. Nervous, poor sod."

"Flo! FLORA," said Alistair, loudly; the words running together like drunken patrons stumbling home from the tavern. _"It'sh _a good thing you're already… _hic! _Naked. Otherwise they'd be ripping off scraps of your dress and _shellin- _selling them off. Meant to be _lucky. _It'sh another weird noble tradition!"

Alistair took a long gulp of water after Teagan's insistent prompt, a trickle running down into his closely cropped beard. Flora smiled up at him, slightly apprehensively. The king stared back at her, his gaze heated and desirous. When he spoke next, the lust coated his words like honey, thick, wild and sweet.

"_Maker'sh_ Breath, but you're _gorgeoush," _he mumbled, reaching up haphazardly for his crown and setting it precariously atop the mantel. "That face… that _body! _I'll be there in a _jusht _a moment, baby."

Heedless of the crowd still in the chamber, Alistair began to unbutton his leather tunic with clumsy fingers, tugging impatiently at the defiant buttons. Flora watched him with a combination of fascination and trepidation as Leonas Bryland hastily gestured for Habren to leave the room. His daughter did so with great reluctance, craning her neck for a glimpse of the king's muscled torso and broad shoulders, the olive skin marred with the occasional cruel reminder of battle.

"I'm ready to con- _conshummate _my marriage," Alistair declared proudly to the fish painted above the mantle-piece, clumsily removing one boot and then the other. "Are _you_ ready, lovely Lo?"

"Yee-ees," replied Flora, somewhat dubiously.

Fergus grimaced, watching the king clumsily unbutton his breeches on the third attempt. He shot an anxious glance at Teagan, who stepped forward and placed a cautionary hand on Alistair's elbow.

"Your enthusiasm is admirable, son, just… take care with her, aye? She's with babe."

Alistair nodded like a Mabari at Teagan's gentle reminder, his eyes softening.

"The mother… the mother of my child," he repeated, breeches now thrust halfway down his thighs. _"I'm the luckiesht man in Thedash."_

The audience were now rapidly vacating the chamber, Leliana hissing angrily in Finian's ear. Two servants, struggling to keep a straight face, entered just as Alistair successfully managed to drop his breeches about his ankles. They manoeuvred the privacy screen into place before the bed; moments later, the two chairs were positioned on the other side.

Flora eyed the setup for a moment – the vellum screen was entirely translucent, and would offer no real concealment. The next moment, she was distracted as Alistair forgot that his breeches were still about his ankles; taking an eager step forward. He crashed face first onto the blankets and furs with a muffled grunt.

She reached out to caress the back of his head, gently stroking the rumpled bronze hair that curled at the nape of his neck. He let out a soft, indistinct sound of pleasure at the touch of her fingers, the muscles in his broad shoulders flexing as he pushed himself blearily upwards; face thrusting towards her own. She ducked her head to let their mouths brush together in a soft, exploratory kiss. The brandy was sweet and tart on Alistair's tongue; his breath warmed by the liquor as it whispered across her face.

The sound of the door opening softly interrupted their kiss, and both of them drew apart to listen. Flora heard two sets of footsteps enter – an elderly woman's shuffle, followed by a man's heavier booted stride. A moment later, there came almost simultaneous wooden squeaks as the two chairs were sat upon.

Flora sat up against the cushions, peering through the vellum screen. She could see two seated figures silhouetted against the light from the hearth; and realised that her own outline would be equally visible.

_It must be some Chantry priestess and the noble from the Landsmeet. I wonder if I should wave to them?_

_Probably not._

_Come on, Flora, you have a job to do. You and Alistair._

Flora leaned back against the cushions and glanced sideways at her husband. To her alarm, Alistair was slumped face down amidst the furs; naked, golden and magnificent as a dozing lion. Her alarm was augmented as he let out a sound that was suspiciously like a _snore._

"Alistair," she hissed, hoping that her voice wasn't carrying to their keen-eared audience. _"Alistair. Wake up!"_

The only response was another snore, even louder. Flora gaped down at Alistair's broad shoulders, too stunned to even admire the taut muscle dormant beneath the battle-marked olive flesh. Immediately, her practical northerner's brain began to sort through the options available to her.

_Roll him over and… improvise?_

Knowing that Alistair loved being awoken by his best friend clambering atop him, Flora gave his hip an experimental, hopeful nudge. The king lay there like deadweight, pressing down into the mattress against the furs and blankets. It soon became apparent that she would not be able to turn him face-upwards.

_Fine. What about creating the sound effects of me and Alistair making love on my own?_

From her seated position Flora gave a little experimental bounce on the bed, but the resultant creak was anaemic and unsatisfactory.

"Oooh," she said, feeling ridiculous. "Mm. _Yes."_

"Are… are you _alright_, your majesty?"

The tentative male voice came drifting around the thin vellum screen; to Flora's relief, it was familiar but not _overly _so. Racking her memory for a moment, she successfully matched the voice to a face.

_Arl Myrr- Murff- the one who asked me to dance earlier._

_At least it's not Eamon!_

"I'm fine," Flora replied, leaning back against the cushions. Bringing one hand to her mouth, she chewed glumly on her thumbnail, wondering what to do

Beside her, Alistair gave a little yawn and rolled over like a warm, sleepy Mabari; one arm groping blindly for his wife. His large, calloused palm landed on her thigh and Flora leaned over, patting his bearded cheek gently with her fingers.

"Mnh," the king grunted, opening one bleary eye to squint at her. "My- my lovely Lo. _Why'sh_ there two of you? Did I marry you both? Bigamy'sh _illegal _in Ferelden… _hic!"_

"It's not Arl Eamon watching us," Flora whispered, in the hope that this would calm Alistair's nerves. "Or Bann Teagan."

Alistair blinked at her, a faint spark of clarity igniting in the midst of his misty, mead-infused stare.

"Wha – what d'you mean _it'sh not Eamon_? Who is it? Leonas?"

"No. It's… Lord Muffy," Flora replied, slightly uncertain.

"_Muffy?"_

"I don't know his name," she mumbled in an attempt to be discreet, aware that the arl and anonymous Chantry priestess were seated only yards away on the other side of the translucent vellum.

Alistair's wide, olive brow creased as his brandy-soaked brain laboriously went through the members of the Fereldan Landsmeet. He proceeded to whisper his guesses into Flora's ear, breath hot and sweetened by honey mead.

"Bann Mathuin?"

"No."

"Lady Morag?"

She grunted in the negative. Alistair frowned for a moment, and then his eyes widened imperceptibly in the fire-lit shadows; the green flecks standing out like shards of sea glass.

"_Not Arl Myrddin!"_

"Mm."

A fraction of clarity returned to Alistair's gaze as he stared at her; his thoughts writ raw across his face.

"I'm glad you're awake," she whispered solemnly, seizing the opportunity. "I thought I'd have to make noises and pretend you were- "

Before Flora could finish her sentence his mouth was crashing onto hers, the sweet-sharp scent of Antivan brandy tart on his lips. With soft yet inexorable insistence his tongue worked its way into Flora's own mouth, drawing an involuntary squeak from her throat. The kiss was no less potent for its lack of refinement; it was hungry, possessive and _demanded_ the immediate yielding of her mouth to his. She readily surrendered, arching herself towards him with both relief and desire.

Alistair pulled back suddenly to take a long draw of air, a ruddy flush rising to the handsome, ascetic olive cheekbones. Flora snuck a quick glance downwards and was gratified to see that which had previously lain heavy and dormant against his thigh was now standing proudly erect in its nest of soft, bronze curls.

"Take – take off your clothes, baby," Alistair whispered, stifling a hiccup. "I want to see that beautiful body of yours."

Flora eyed him – she was sprawled before him _entirely naked –_ then decided to play along, squirming around in the furs for a moment.

"Alright," she breathed, letting her fingers brush over her bare thigh for emphasis. "They're… all off. My clothes."

Alistair stared down at her, mouth slightly open; the flush creeping down his throat and across the broad, golden-furred spread of his chest. His eyes were heavy-lidded with lust, pupils blown wide and dark; focused on her like the Mabari staring down the hunted _halla _on the tapestry_. _His gaze meandered from her face, to her throat, to the mound of her breast; curved and pale as a goose egg.

Dropping further, his stare took in the swell of her stomach and then the cleft at the top of her thighs; an involuntary sound escaping his throat. Mesmerised, Alistair reflexively reached down to take himself in hand, sliding a loose fist in a languid, practised rhythm as he stared down unashamedly at her body.

Flora gazed up at him with benevolence at first, pleased that he seemed equally enraptured with her childbearing body as he had been with its slender equivalent. However, as the expression on his face became slightly dazed – the stare a fraction _cross-eyed – _she felt increasingly less magnanimous. She watched the king pull mindlessly at himself in an alcohol-mired trance, as though she were some erotic painting in an Antivan brothel as opposed to a _living, breathing girl _lying before him. Flora scowled to herself, peering ill-temperedly up at the ceiling.

The next time that she looked across at Alistair, he was flat on his back and snoring once again. Flora stared at him for a moment, feeling a slightly hysterical laugh rise in her throat.

_Don't laugh, Flora! This isn't supposed to be funny._

Instead of a laugh, a tear emerged from the corner of her eye. Flora blinked in astonishment, her mouth falling open as she felt a second tear follow the first. Reaching up, she touched exploratory fingertips to her cheeks; they came away wet and Flora inhaled unsteadily.

_Come on, _she thought sternly to herself. _This is ridiculous._

Flora rolled over onto her side, one hand on the swell of her belly; facing away from Alistair so that she could hide her face in the bearskin. The thick fur brushed against her skin and she sneezed, wiping her nose on the back of her arm.

_We haven't consummated anything, _she thought to herself, feeling a sudden twist of alarm. _What does that mean in a noble marriage? Does it mean the marriage isn't legal? Is the baby a bastard again?_

The thought of the day's endless fuss, ceremony and ritual ultimately proving futile was enough to send more tears spilling over Flora's eyelashes. She put her hands over her face, pressing her thumbs hard into the corners of her eyes.

_I don't want to go through all that again!_

The baby decided that this would be an excellent moment to harass its young mother, and sent a small foot directly into her kidneys.

It was a combination of Flora's resultant yelp and her absence from his chest that woke Alistair; his arms reaching blindly into the empty space of the mattress before his eyes had even opened. When it became clear that his new wife was not in her usual place curled against his side, he let out a muffled grunt of confusion, rubbing a sleepy hand over his face.

"Lo?"

The firelight from the hearth cast a flickering, burnished glow across the bed, the inconstant light creating a mottled patchwork of shadow and warmth. Alistair blinked into the gloom, realising that his best friend was huddled amidst the blankets on the dark side of the bed; the scar left by the Archdemon's soul glinting silvery between her shoulders. Her hair was a tangle of dark red seaweed spread across the blankets; she was hunched around her unwieldy stomach like a hermit crab.

Wriggling across the crumpled blankets, Alistair pressed his lips between her shoulder blades, directly over the pale etching of the Archdemon.

"Sweetheart?"

When Flora gave a sniff instead of replying, he leaned over on an elbow and gently angled her face towards him. She had her eyes tightly closed, the corners of her mouth turned down. With a sinking suspicion in the pit of his stomach, Alistair reached out and brushed his thumb gently against her lashes. His fears were confirmed when it came away wet and he inhaled in dismay; drawing her immediately against his chest.

"My love," he murmured in her ear, seeking out her fingers and wrapping them tightly in his own. "Why are you crying? My own… _hic!_ sweet wife. Tell me what's wrong and I'll fix it."

Seeing no point in trying to obscure the cause of her dejection, Flora whispered the truth back to him.

"I'm _not_ your wife yet," she breathed back, miserably. "Not really."

"What do you mean? Of course you are, darling."

Flora peered up through the shadows; thinking on how handsome Alistair's bronzed features appeared in the firelight even when creased in confusion.

"All the ridiculous things we had to do today," she said, softly. "All the fuss, all the rituals and traditions and _processing around. _None of it matters, compared to _this. This_ is what makes us married. Me and you, together."

She reached up to brush his cheek with the back of her fingers, light and sad.

Sobering rapidly, Alistair stared down at her, understanding at last.

"You and I, together," he repeated, in a quiet and wondering voice. "You're right, Flo. And this – _this_ has more meaning than _anything _we did in the Chantry."

Flora gazed up at him, tentative hope dawning on her tear-stained face. Alistair reached down to return the gesture, stroking his thumb down the line of her jaw.

"Ah, why was I even _worried _about this?" he murmured, eyes warm and bruised with tenderness. "It's the best bit about the whole day. No Chantry rituals, no crowns, no thrones – just you, and I, together. The two of us in bed, this is what… what _counts."_

"And that's not too hard, is it?" she replied, a note of anxiety in the words.

"No, baby," the king said throatily, staring down at her with desire kindling in the depths of his hazel gaze. "The opposite. It's very _easy _to love you."

Flora smiled up at him, and he covered her lips with a kiss that stole the air from her lungs and left her gasping. When Alistair broke the kiss, he moved his mouth to her ear; teasing its pink outer shell with the tip of his tongue.

"So, you want me to make you my wife now?" he breathed, letting his callused thumb meander over her lip, down her throat and along the line of her collarbone.

She nodded, mutedly. Alistair smiled once more, his teeth white against the fire-lit darkness. Suddenly Flora understood Maric Theirin's nickname of the _Lion of the East; _the old king's predatory, proud leonine features had manifested strongest in his second son.

Without warning, Alistair rolled on top of her; careful to keep his weight suspended on knees and strong arms. Still, he was close enough for the muscled bulk to press her down into the mattress; downy golden chest hair brushing against her naked breast as he bowed his head to nuzzle her neck. He smelt warm, and masculine, and his breath still carried the spiced edge of the Antivan brandy.

Flora reached up to anchor her arms about the strong breadth of his shoulders as his lips plastered a ragged line of kisses from her ear to the base of her throat. Suddenly wanting more than just his mouth, she arched herself upwards; shamelessly nudging her body against his with a little keen of need.

This small sound thoroughly undermined the self-control that Alistair had been so determined to maintain. Abandoning his restraint, he began to suckle at her neck, keeping himself propped up on one arm while the other hand shamelessly groped her breasts and between her legs, kneading and stroking with clumsy desire. Flora returned his ardour with equal fervency, reaching down to clutch at his taut buttock as she fixed her teeth around his earlobe. He was sweaty now, the muscles in his back covered with a fine film of perspiration as they flexed and contracted. As always, the raw strength contained within the bulk of her best friend's body sent a jolt of arousal straight to her core.

Impulsively, Flora dug her short fingernails into his shoulder blades and dragged them downwards; eliciting such a _groan _as she had never heard from him before.

Without warning, Alistair shifted his hips upwards and slid fully into her, meeting no resistance from her ready flesh. Flora curved herself towards him, relishing the sense of _satiation_ that only this could provide. His hips began to piston back and forth, perspiration dripping from his chest onto her breasts as he rocked into her with hoarse grunts of satisfaction. His face was raw with pleasure; brow creased and eyes half-closed, lips drawn back over his teeth as he moaned.

It took only a handful of thrusts before she was crying out his name with each full sheath of sword into scabbard. This seemed to spur Alistair's efforts on more vigorously, strangled gasps escaping his throat as he panted above her. The bed gave rhythmic creaks of protest about them; the centuries-old wooden posts suffering beneath the young king's ardour.

"_My_ wife," he managed to croak between incoherent gasps, face hazy with pleasure. "Mine. Say it, baby."

He pulled her thighs up about his hips, gripping her in place while grinding in more slowly. Flora whimpered, weak and delirious before him; ropes of hair plastered to her damp breasts. The sound went straight to Alistair's root and he had to grit his teeth, sweat sliding down his stomach to dampen the curls nestled at the apex of his thighs.

Yet he was determined to see to his bride's pleasure first, reaching down to stroke her roughly with a thumb while continuing the slow, deep thrusts.

"_Say it, _Flora."

"_Yours," _she managed to gasp out, her voice strangled. "I'm yours."

As a reward, Alistair's teasing, callused thumb now drove her towards climax; circling with relentless focus on what he knew to be her most sensitive point. During their month long hiatus at South Reach, he had become intimate with the architecture of his best friend's body, determined to improve upon the clumsy adolescent rutting that they had engaged in within Brecilian. He had also gained an invaluable education in pleasuring a woman from the Rivaini pirate during the memorable hours he had spent with her and Flora in the Pearl. Once Alistair had overcome his initial shyness, Isabela had found him to be an enthusiastic and ardent pupil.

Now the king ruthlessly exercised every inch of that precious knowledge, maintaining his own rhythm while moving his thumb in increasingly tight circles. It did not take long - Flora was an easy girl both to please and to pleasure – and soon she was curving like a bow towards him.

He put his mouth to her ear; breathing crude compliments that made her insides squirm with arousal, using coarse gutter language that she hadn't even realised he _knew._

"Come on, baby," he prompted thickly at last, the words barely escaping his lust-constricted throat. "Come for your husband."

Obediently she came undone beneath him, hips shuddering and mouth opening wide; a cry slipping out like an ecstatic prayer. It was loud enough that the still-coherent part of Alistair's mind hoped very much that Flora's brothers in the adjacent chamber had made good use of their wax earplugs.

Once he was content that she had been well-satisfied, the king released the final bounds of restraint; lifting Flora's hips and thrusting hard and erratic between her slick thighs. One of her small feet was knocking against his thigh and he grabbed it, sucking her toes lewdly into his mouth.

After spending himself with a hoarse, shuddering groan, he hunched over her with heaving shoulders, trying to catch his breath. Flora closed her eyes for a moment, dropping her head back against the cushions. Her heart was racing and she took several deep, long breaths to try and slow it; conscious of the fidgeting infant in her belly.

When she opened her eyes once more, Alistair was gazing down at her with naked adoration; the green flecks in his irises standing out stark against the tender hazel background. Flora lifted her arm and touched the side of his flushed face, her finger tracing the line of his damp beard. _Mairyn's Star _and the wedding band sat below glinted in the firelight; bright, metallic points amidst the shadow.

"I love you," she said impulsively, solemn and earnest.

Alistair withdrew from her with a half-gasp, leaning forward to press a clumsy kiss to her lips before whispering the words back to her. Their parting bodies made an audibly wet noise as he shifted sideways onto the mattress, skin slippery with rapidly cooling sweat. Flora could feel her hair hanging in wet ropes – not merely damp, but _saturated _– about her shoulders.

"My darling wife," Alistair murmured, sleepily rearranging the cushions behind his head before settling back against them. "Come here, Lo."

He lifted an arm, and Flora rolled against his side; resting her head in the crook of his shoulder. Their hands reflexively reached for each other, fingers curling tightly together in their old ritual. Neither spared a glance for the vellum screen or the figures silhouetted against the hearth.

For several moments they rested quietly, his free hand stroking absentmindedly over her hair.

"You were right, my love," Alistair murmured eventually, just as Flora was beginning to slide down the gentle slope towards sleep.

"Eeeh?"

"This_ was_ the bit that mattered. My sweet girl."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Oh woooow this is a long chapter! I was originally going to split it up into two parts, but I actually think it works better as one long chapter. At first, the figures behind the screen feature prominently (Arl Myrddin is the chap who asked Flora to dance last chapter) – reflecting how both Alistair and Flora are thinking about them – but when they actually get it on, they're so preoccupied with each other that they barely notice their audience.
> 
> Alistair only calls Flora "Flora" in two circumstances – when he wants her to take something seriously, and in the bedroom, lol. Anyway, this was a super fun chapter to write! I did feel quite sorry for Flo at first, but Alistair redeemed himself well towards the end. They are a lot better at doing it now than they were in the original story, hahaha.


	63. Crowns and Camomile Tea

As though to make up for his earlier lethargy; Alistair seemed determined to make the most of the rest of their wedding night. This suited Flora perfectly well, since the humours of her body were too imbalanced for a restful sleep. Just after the twelve-bells change in watch, the king had his queen on all fours like a Mabari; defiant in his love of the position that foreigners derisively described as primitive and typically Fereldan.

The deepest part of the night settled like a soft, muted cloak over the turrets and towers of the Royal Palace. Guards and retainers stood vigil outside the quarters of their respective liege-lords; yawning servants removed the last of the food and detritus from the great hall. Candlelight blazed from the turret windows of the castle library, where scribes were working diligently to chronicle every detail of the day's ceremonies. Leliana, conversely, was fast asleep – the bard was exhausted from masterminding the crucial minutiae of the day's events; once the adrenaline had finally drained, she was catatonic within minutes.

Meanwhile, in a shadowed corner of the Landsmeet chamber, the Fereldan dancing girl with the long, fox-fur coloured hair moaned into the darkness; a third climax coaxed from her parted lips by the charming blond elf. She didn't know why the Antivan had singled her out for his attention – especially with those half-naked Rivaini dancers also competing for his wickedly dancing eye – but she certainly wasn't going to complain.

Dawn brought a peach-coloured sunrise laced with deep pink cloud; mellow light spilling like brandy over the mead-sodden streets of Denerim. Nobody in the city wanted to wake up – their heads still thrummed from the excesses of the previous night – and so shutters stayed firmly sealed and the streets were eerily quiet. The seagulls swooped in annoyed perplexion over the deserted fish-market, and stray cats delighted in their extended dominion over the cobblestoned alleyways.

As the occupants of Denerim Castle also continued to slumber, up in the Royal bedchamber a sweaty Flora peered down at her snoring husband. She was straddling her best friend's hips, having just ridden him as best she could with a twenty-six week old babe in the belly. Unfortunately, Alistair was not able to appreciate her proud afterglow, since he had fallen into a dead sleep about thirty seconds after spending himself.

Flora was feeling a tad fidgety – she had been put off her own climax after feeling the baby give a vigorous wriggle – and so clambered awkwardly off Alistair's broad thighs. The inside of her mouth felt dry; she recalled the flagon of apple-water sitting on the dresser. Fortunately, the vellum screen caught the corner of her eye and she stopped herself from wandering naked across the flagstones.

Of course: we're not alone. I forgot.

Looking about the tangled furs and blankets on the bed, she spotted the same ugly mustard-yellow dressing robe that she had worn the previous night. Grateful that Leliana had sent it down – the coarse wool garment reminded her of Herring – Flora pulled it on over her shoulders and fastened the chunky wooden buttons at the front.

Yawning, she clambered out of bed and ventured barefoot around the transparent vellum screen; grimacing at the coldness of the flagstones. The servants had been in already – new cedar logs had been piled into the hearth, and fresh rushes strewn across the floor.

A Chantry mother, plump and shrivelled like a well-aged apple, was half-falling asleep on one of the chairs; her grey curls slipping out from beneath her tall hat. Her maroon and ivory robes were crumpled from a long night of sitting in one spot. Flora recognised the lined face and sought to match it with a name; finally identifying the elderly priestess as Mother Telatia from Revanloch monastery.

The old woman put a tired hand to her face and yawned deeply. Although she had not technically been required to stay for the duration of the night, to do so had become an unspoken tradition over the Ages. Telatia would not let herself be the one to break established protocol; even if it meant that she was nearly falling from her chair with weariness.

Beside her, Arl Myrddin sat on his own chair; looking distinctly worse for wear. A fresh growth of stubble grew past the boundary of his auburn beard, and dark shadows lined the undersides of his eyes. The top buttons of his tunic had been loosened, and dried perspiration had caked in the creases of his brow. There were at least half a dozen empty tankards clustered about his booted feet.

Flora felt irrationally guilty as she eyed arl and aged Chantry Mother; who both appeared exhausted – and in Myrddin's case, hung-over.

"Don't get up," she said hastily, seeing both start to rise on seeing her. "Honestly, it's fine. Did you have to stay all night?"

Arl Myrddin began to speak - let out a hoarse croak instead – then coughed and started again.

"The council require detailed proof that the marriage has been consummated," he mumbled, a flush creeping up from his loosened collar. "And the scribes should like to record it in the annals."

For perhaps the hundredth time Flora thought how peculiar the nobility were; with their traditions and rituals and obsession with posterity. She eyed the hand-written notes that rested on the arl's lap, and had to bite back a snort.

"Oh. Alright, then."

"Did you want to read them? Check for any mistakes?"

"I can't read them," Flora replied, watching the arl go a deep shade of purple. "Or, at least, not well."

"Should – should I – do you want me to- to read-"

"No, don't worry," she said kindly, wanting to spare him any further embarrassment. "I'm sure that my brother Finian will tell me everything in graphic detail later. He likes to make fun of me."

Arl Myrddin nodded and then coughed; glancing up at her before dropping his gaze hastily to his feet.

"If it's alright, your majesty – I might go and write these up more neatly to make them – ah - presentable for the Landsmeet."

Flora looked down at the sheets of parchment – smudged with what appeared to be sweat – and gave a little, wide-eyed nod. Myrddin practically fled the room, colliding with the door in his haste.

Just then, the Chantry Mother gave a little harrumph and almost fell off the chair; clutching the wooden arms and sitting bolt-upright. Flora squatted beside her, putting a tentative hand on the old woman's arm.

"You can go too, if you like," she whispered, earnestly.

"I wouldn't dream of it!" retorted the old woman, revealing a glint of steeliness beneath the faded exterior. "My duty is to remain here until the Chancellor of Ferelden relieves me."

"Oh," replied the new queen, slightly bemused. "Alright."

The priestess fixed Flora with a beady look, reaching up to fix the angle of her Chantry hat with a papery hand that shook with age.

"Would you like a cup of tea, then?" Flora offered impulsively instead, eyes sliding over to the large copper kettle beside the hearth.

There was a pause; the priestess clearly dubious about the protocol of accepting a drink from the king's new bride. Flora took the hesitation as assent and propelled herself to her feet, padding across to retrieve the kettle.

"I make a good cup of tea," she said over her shoulder, adding water to the kettle. "I had to make them all the time for the older apprentices when I was in the Circle. If the tea was too strong – or gone cold – they threatened to turn me into a worm."

Kettle now filled, Flora used the iron hook to hang it carefully within the hearth; feeling a pulse of regret that she could no longer simply reach above the flames with a golden sheath enveloping her hand.

As she sat on the low footstool beside the hearth waiting for the water to boil, two servants came in to remove the vellum privacy screen. Flora watched them in slight trepidation, unable to remember what state of dress she had left Alistair in – she did not want to accidentally traumatise the elderly priestess.

Fortunately, Alistair had rolled over in Flora's absence; a bearskin draped over his waist. Flora gazed at him for a moment, admiring the long-limbed bulk of her new husband as he lay tangled amidst the blankets. The golden hair, no longer tamed by water or the weight of the crown, stood up in tousled peaks atop his head.

"Haven't you seen enough of him already?" enquired the priestess testily, who was too venerable to care much for royal rank. "Three times is a little excessive, even for a wedding night."

Flora was used to crotchety old women – they grew in Herring as freely as barnacles, and the Circle did not lack for them either. She cackled, leaning forward on the stool and carefully lifting the kettle lid to check the water. It was not quite boiling but she took it off the hook anyway, not wanting to scald the herbs.

"Four times," she corrected solemnly, carrying the kettle over to the table and placing it down before heading over to the midwife's neatly labelled jars of herbal teas. "Would you like – ah - ging- gignar- ginger…. or c-c- camel-bile?"

"What you did between- " the Chantry priestess consulted her own copy of handwritten notes "- the second and third bell was not a form of Chantry-approved congress. For future reference, no children will result from that sort of union. And I'll have camomile."

Flora snickered, placing several pinchfuls of dried camomile leaves into the infuser before twisting it shut and lowering it into the water.

"Oh, dear," she said mildly, setting the cup down and placing a hand on her stomach as the baby settled down for a nap. "Never mind."

While waiting for the herbs to diffuse, Flora wandered over to the edge of the bed and sat down, reaching out to smooth her palm across Alistair's rumpled head. He mumbled something incoherent in his sleep, yawning into the blankets.

"Anyway, I could never get tired of looking at him," she continued fondly, touching the strong, bearded line of his jaw. "He's the most handsomest man in Thedas."

Most handsomest?! the priestess mouthed incredulously to herself. However, since she was aware of Flora's lack of formal education, she made no comment.

Flora propelled herself off the bed and went to retrieve the tea, removing the diffuser and inhaling the strong, sweet scent of camomile. Careful not to let it spill, she carried it across to the priestess and handed it to her.

"Thank you, child."

Flora gave a little Herring grunt in response, stifling a yawn. The palace was unusually quiet – it seemed as though everyone was having a lie-in after the excesses of the night before – and she decided to return to the familiar warmth of Alistair's arms.

The priestess shot her a slightly suspicious look over the steaming tea.

"You're not planning on any more… activities, are you? I've run out of room on my parchment."

"No," replied Flora, unable to suppress the next yawn. "I'm just going to sleep a bit longer."

She unbuttoned the ugly mustard-colouring dressing robe and let it drop to the flagstones, pulling back the furs and clambering into bed beside Alistair. The king grunted, subconsciously drawing his new wife into his arms and curling his body about her like a protective shell. Now that the baby had settled down for a nap, Flora too was able to drift off into her own peculiar type of dreamless slumber; the dawn-lit chamber fading away in small, shadowed increments.

Alistair woke an hour later to sunlight spilling across the flagstones and the sound of quiet conversation in the corridor. He glanced down at Flora, who was fast asleep in his arms, and grinned reflexively. A moment later he twitched as he caught sight of an elderly priestess sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed. She was eyeing him with disconcerting focus, the silver accents on her tall Chantry hat glinting in the morning sun.

"Ah," he said, checking to make sure that the fur was safely across his groin. "Morning, mother."

"Good morning, your majesty," replied the Chantry Mother evenly, hands still wrapped around her empty tea cup.

"There… was a screen between us last night, wasn't there?" a nervous Alistair sought to confirm, exhaling in relief when the elderly sister gave a nod.

A bell rang in the courtyard outside to mark the ninth hour. Most occupants of the palace were now awake after sleeping off the excesses of the Royal wedding. The sound of distant activity rose up to filter in through the cracked-open window; servants conversing excitedly to one another as they shared fragments of gossip from the previous night. Two retainers belonging to rival Marcher clans had got into a fight; one of the young Pentaghast cousins had drunk too much and spewed the contents of his stomach in the middle of the entrance hall. The youngest Vael prince had been caught in bed with two Rivaini dancers, embarrassing his Chantry-fearing father so much that the man swore to send his son off to a monastery the very day that they returned to Starkhaven.

Despite the inhabitants of the palace slowly settling into their daytime rhythm around the Royal Bedchamber, Alistair was reluctant to wake his softly snoring wife. Flora was curled beneath the crook of his arm, hair entirely obscuring her features and one foot sticking out from beneath the blankets. He reached down to move the thick, rope-like strands of red away from her face, leaning over to kiss the centre of her smooth forehead.

Just then, the doors into the corridor opened and the steward gave a decorous cough.

"The Chancellor of Ferelden and the Bann of Rainesfere, your majesty."

Alistair hastily drew the fur over his naked wife, sitting up against the cushions as both Guerrin brothers entered. Eamon's smile was triumphant, while Teagan's bore a faint edge of drollness.

"Sleep well, Alistair?" the bann enquired lightly, then laughed out loud as Alistair narrowed his eyes.

The arl bowed his head towards the Chantry Mother, who was preparing to take her leave.

"Thank you for your service, madam."

The elderly priestess gave a sleepy grunt in response, handing over her own handwritten notes to the arl. These – in conjunction with those of Myrddin – would be noted and stored in the archives for posterity. Alistair eyed the neatly scribed writing with slight trepidation; unsure whether or not he wanted to read a transcript of his own wedding night.

"Well done for yesterday, son," Eamon began, smiling at Alistair as the king rubbed a hand over his bleary eyes and yawned. "It couldn't have gone better. Both you and Florence made Ferelden truly proud."

"Thank the Maker you only have one coronation day," Alistair replied, drily. "When's the next big formal occasion? Not for many months, I hope."

"Not until the blessing ceremony for the babe," confirmed the Chancellor, to Alistair's immeasurable relief. "So several months away yet."

Meanwhile Teagan had busied himself pouring some fresh ale for his yawning nephew; flashing Alistair a smile as he handed over the flagon.

"So, how does it feel to wake up a married man?"

Alistair couldn't stop a rather mindless grin from spreading over his face as he looked first at the golden band on his ring finger, then at the girl curled against his side, snoring open-mouthed in her sleep.

"I feel like the luckiest man in Thedas," he replied, blunt and honest. "I can't quite believe Flo is my wife now."

Teagan laughed, casting a wry glance towards the sheaf of notes in Eamon's hand. "Even after twelve hours of ceremony and two eye-witness accounts?"

As Alistair flushed slightly at the mention of the consummation, Flora yawned widely at his side, stretching her sleep-drowsy limbs. Pushing herself up against the cushions, she clutched the blanket to her breasts with a casual hand and eyed their early morning visitors blearily.

"Morning, Arl Eamon. Morning, Bann Teagan."

She bade Alistair good morning by planting a kiss on his bristled cheek. Eamon greeted her kindly in return while Teagan muttered something incoherent and directed his eyes to the ceiling. Viewing the object of his affection languid and tousle-haired in bed did not exactly douse the flame of his reluctant desire.

The king put an arm around Flora's shoulders and directed his next question to Eamon.

"So, what's the plan for today?"

"You'll be breaking your fast in private," Eamon began, stepping to one side as a pair of servants manhandled in a copper bathtub. "Then, I believe you have some business with Mac Tir."

Flora gave a little shiver of anxiety, recalling Oghren's intention to join the Wardens. As promised, Loghain had brought some of the required lyrium-infused Darkspawn blood; she hoped that the dwarf was not too horrendously hung-over after the excesses of the previous night.

Unless alcohol helps to reduce the effects of the taint, in which case I'm going to force-feed him whiskey.

She and Alistair had explained as much as they themselves understood of the Joining to the dwarf – the risk, the shortened lifespan, the infertility – but their companion had been stubbornly insistent.

Alistair felt Flora shiver and tightened his arm around her, dropping a kiss to her bare shoulder.

"He'll be fine," the king tried to assure her. "The dwarf has got a lead-lined stomach, remember?"

As Flora brought her fingernails anxiously to her mouth, Eamon continued on with the day's plans.

"Then, Alistair, we've a trade discussion with the Marcher lords which should take up most of the afternoon. Your evening is your own."

Alistair exhaled in slight relief – at least the day did not seem to contain any ten hour meetings. He glanced sideways at Flora, who was trying to subtly manoeuvre herself into the mustard yellow dressing gown without exposing too much skin.

"Lo, did you mention something about your Gwaren committee being today?"

Flora nodded, having successfully negotiated her way into the lurid garment.

"Mm," she replied, swinging her legs out of bed and hauling herself upright. "It's in the afternoon. I'm going to see if the lady Anora wants to come with me. Is she still staying in the Mac Tir quarters?"

Eamon gave a small nod of confirmation.

"Aye, she's refusing to come out. Hasn't left the rooms in over a month."

Flora grimaced, scratching at the back of her head.

"Maybe she'll want to hear about the new fishing wharf we're going to build in Gwaren," she said at last, hopefully. "I think if she apologises to the people in person, they might forgive her."

"Or they'll lynch her," murmured Teagan under his breath. "There's a lot of anger still between Gwaren and the Mac Tirs."

Alistair pushed back the furs and clambered out of bed, wandering naked over to the dresser to inspect the fresh growth of hair across his cheeks.

"Isn't he manly?" an admiring Flora whispered to Teagan, who nearly spat out his mouthful of ale.

After deciding that a shave was not required, the king turned to his wife and fixed her with a stern eye. She was now pulling at a loose strand of wool on the sleeve of the lurid, dressing robe; he could see the curve of her naked collarbone, pale and vulnerable.

"Who's going with you to the committee meeting, sweetheart?"

Although it went without saying that a dozen Royal Guard would accompany the new queen, Alistair was not satisfied with mere soldiers – only one of their familiar companions, or Flora's own brothers would sate his worries.

"Finian," Flora said, recalling her brother's offer the previous day. "I think Wynne is coming as well."

"What about Zev? Leliana?"

She gave an unhelpful Herring grunt and shrugged, seeing how far she could tug the strand of wool from her sleeve. Alistair resolved silently to seek out one of their dagger-wielding companions before the morning was through. Wynne was more than competent and Finian would defend his sister to the death; but the two assassins in their company had an eye for trouble and could often spot a threat before it manifested.

Another pair of servants entered with fire-warmed linen drying cloths and a tray of soaps; placing them where the bathtub rested next to the gently smouldering hearth. Eamon spoke up as he and his brother prepared to take their leave.

"Florence, it would be beneficial if you could come into the trade discussions once the Gwaren committee is finished. I believe your presence will help us negotiate some more favourable terms."

"Eh?" replied Flora, who was now frantically trying to stop the entire sleeve from unravelling. "It will?"

"Aye, flower. Nobody wants to short-change the Hero of Ferelden," added Teagan, cheerfully.

Or put a frown on that comely face, he thought to himself, following Eamon to the door.

Neither king not queen required any assistance with bathing, though a pair of attendants came in shortly afterwards, bringing clean clothing, honey mead and various items of food for breakfast. Alistair bathed first and then sat naked and dripping on the stool beside Flora as she sat in the tub; crumbs of fresh-baked bread falling into the water while he ate and chattered away.

Flora gave the occasional reply, content to let her best friend dominate the conversation as he talked through the particulars of the upcoming meeting. She was rubbing soap into her hair, while listening to Alistair as he decided out loud what avenues of trade to pursue. Talking through the various options helped to clarify them in the king's mind; giving him confidence when talking about them before the council later.

Knowing that they would not be alone until later that evening, both former Wardens relished this hour of relative privacy. Flora sat on the bearskin before the hearth and bit into a raw turnip; Alistair knelt behind her, rubbing her wet hair vigorously with the heated linen cloth. They were now discussing the events of the previous day; neither of them wanting to dwell on their friend's upcoming Joining.

The king's eye fell on his bride's narrow shoulders, the Peraquialus freckles obliterated by the white, multi-arcing scar.

"I'm still outraged at that blasted Tevinter magister wanting to inspect you," Alistair repeated for the third time that morning, renewed outrage flooding his face. "When you go to the Gwaren meeting, take the road over the traders' bridge rather than through the noble district. Pavus is staying there and I don't want him even looking at you through the windows."

"I don't know why he's so interested in them," Flora said in perplexion, voice muffled behind the mass of damp hair as she peered down at her white-mottled palms. "They're just marks. There's nothing different about them from this, or this- "

She twisted around as far as her stomach would allow, touching the faded scars across Alistair's torso that predated her entry into his life. Her fingertips meandered across a pale line that divided his collarbone in two; then over a white scar so near to his heart that it made her feel faintly nauseous. The thought of her best friend in pain – pain that she could no longer take away with a well-timed exhalation – was a horrific one.

Impulsively, Flora reached up and put her arms about Alistair's neck. Letting go of the damp linen cloth, he embraced her in return; sliding his palm up and down her bare back.

"Promise me you'll never get hurt again," she breathed in his ear, fingers curling into the taut muscle of his shoulders. "That you'll stay safe."

Alistair picked up on the anxiety in her voice and stopped himself from joking that any would-be assailants would have to get through the incessantly-present Royal Guard first. Instead he kissed the top of Flora's head, inhaling the clean, fresh smell of soap from her damp hair.

"I promise, my love. But you have to swear the same to me! Even the thought of you being in pain drives me mad, Flo."

Both of them looked down reflexively at Flora's swollen stomach, sitting high and round as a melon. Flora swallowed; she had already spent several restless nights worrying about the pain that was sure to result from the delivery of their child. She could not help but remember the woman in South Reach who had been in labour for twelve agonising hours before the babe was cut bloody and screaming from her belly.

Zevran did the cutting; I healed her up afterwards.

What if that happens to me? I won't be able to heal myself.

"I think pain is going to be slightly inevitable for me," she whispered, forcing herself to smile and shrug. "I hope it's quick, at least."

The dark and unspeakable fear rose in Alistair's mind once more, like some menacing, long-toothed creature of the deep. His own mother had died in childbirth, as had Zevran's. Isolde Guerrin had caught childbed fever after a difficult labour with Connor. Eamon had almost resigned himself to the death of his wife before she made a miraculous recovery.

Submerging the fear fiercely, Alistair tightened his grip on his nervous wife and sought out her fingers with his free hand; roping them together.

"You're going to be fine, Lo," he told her, brightly. "I won't move from your side."

To Flora's relief, there was no expectation that she should begin to garb herself in long, ornate gowns in the style of the previous queen. Two trunks of new clothing had been delivered to the Royal Bedchamber – she suspected that they had been sent by Leliana – but fortunately, these contained only a scant handful of muslin-wrapped dresses. One trunk was full of tunics in shades of Highever navy, Theirin scarlet and Mac Eanraig hunter's green. They were woven from the softest lambs' wool and edged with golden thread; a finer class of garment than the incarnations she had worn previously. The other trunk was full of leather breeches and fur-trimmed bodices; designed to complement the style of Alistair's kingly garb.

Having had enough of leather and fur after yesterday's coronation – and feeling the heat of the Solace sun streaming through the windows - Flora chose a tunic in rich Highever blue. With some help from Alistair, she wrestled on a pair of formfitting calfskin breeches; the king then retrieved her faithful boots from beneath the bed.

"I don't have to wear the hat from yesterday, do I?" Flora asked as Alistair adjusted the angle of the spiked golden band atop his own head. "It weighed a ton."

The king grinned to himself, fastening the last button on his high-necked leather tunic.

"No, my love, you don't have to wear that 'hat'. Guillaume said he would be bringing something up from the treasury for you to wear in the daytime."

Flora let out a small grunt, scratching her nose. She almost voiced her thoughts out loud - that she didn't particularly like hats, wasn't used to wearing anything on her head, had never even worn a helm in battle - then heard her Herring-dad's voice echo sternly in her ear.

It's just something on your head, girl. Don't make such a fuss.

Aware that Alistair was watching her – and not wanting him to feel guilty for causing the need for her to wear a crown in the first place – Flora smiled widely at her husband.

"You look so handsome," she said, earnestly. "I could eat you."

Alistair's eyes lit up and he took an eager step towards her - only for a knock to sound on the door. Chief steward Guillaume made his entrance a moment later, clutching a polished walnut case portentously.

"Your majesties," he said, dipping into a practised bow. "I trust you slept well?"

Trying not to snicker at the steward's deadpan tone, Flora finished lacing up the front of the tunic, tying a neat sailor's knot between her breasts. Alistair coughed, predicting that this teasing question would emerge from a number of mouths over the course of the morning. Still, he answered it with a neutral, straight-faced politeness.

"Well enough, thank you."

Flora turned to the mirror, tying the front strands of her hair at the nape of her neck; leaving the rest of the damp mass hanging loose in the hope that it would dry quicker. Guillaume crossed the flagstones and came to a halt before her, opening the walnut case with eyes lowered decorously.

"Alistair requested that we find something lightweight for you, something that had not been worn by Anora," the steward murmured, the Nevarran edge to his accent still sharp even after decades spent in Denerim. "Here: Andraste's Garland. It hasn't been worn by an incumbent queen since the Storm Age."

The crown itself reminded Flora a little of the Cousland laurel – they were both delicately hewn from strands of old gold, prime examples of Fereldan craftsmanship. Yet, where the Cousland coronet consisted of uniformly-shaped laurel leaves spaced at regular intervals; Andraste's Garland had a far more organic, natural feel. Slender veins of gold, twisted to represent curling vines, wove their way around delicately crafted emulations of Andraste's Grace, a flower native to Ferelden. Tiny pearls nestled at the centre of each bloom, their iridescent sheen reflecting the light from each exquisitely sculpted petal.

A moment later and Alistair was standing at Flora's side, lifting the coronet carefully from its plush velvet setting. Using their reflections in the tall mirror to guide him, he placed Andraste's Garland gently onto Flora's head.

"My queen," he said proudly, admiring the sheen of the old gold against the dark red hair. "Maker's Breath, I'm so glad you're doing this with me."

It was clear that this incorporated the crown, the throne, the palace and a lifetime's worth of duty. For a moment, Flora gazed at her own reflection and wondered on how much had changed in the span of a year.

Last summer I was the resident Circle embarrassment, a failing apprentice who spent more time cleaning corridors than in the classroom; teased for my lowborn accent as well as my lack of skill. The senior enchanters had no idea what my name was – and even the other apprentices just called me 'the Vase'. Nice to look at, containing nothing of value.

Change can come as swift and dramatic as a storm on the Waking Sea, which can reshape miles of coastline over the course of one furious night.

Flora smiled up at her best friend's reflected face; his handsome brow nearly a foot above her own.

"It's an honour to stand at your side," she replied, quietly. Alistair bowed his head over her shoulder, brushing a feathery kiss to the side of her neck.

"Right," he said after a moment, their eyes meeting once more in the mirror. "Shall we… get on with it, then? I have a feeling that the Wardens are waiting for us."

Flora felt her stomach give a little roll of dread, but nodded determinedly. "Yes. Let's go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reference to humours at the start of the chapter refers to a common Medieval theory of health – where the body contains four humours (or liquids – black bile, yellow bile, blood and phlegm) – and if they were balanced, you were healthy, and if they were imbalanced, there was something wrong!
> 
> Mac Eanraig is Flora's maternal name – Eleanor Cousland was from the Mac Eanraig family! Ferelden is such a blend of Medieval England and Scotland (I even think it's leaning more towards Scotland, based on the Landsmeet system, Celtic-y heritage and the nomenclature of the families). Oh and in Britain we spell 'chamomile' as 'camomile', lol. I think it's like the only example of differences in spelling where we actually take away a letter instead of adding in a random vowel, hehe.


	64. Oghren's Joining

Alistair and Flora made their way down the Royal corridor, the guards shifting their pikes from hand to hand in a quick left-right salutation as they passed. Servants kept a respectful distance, bowing their heads and drawing back against the walls to give the king and queen ample room. The palace was the quietest that it had been all week – many of the wedding guests were still either slumbering or breaking their fast within their chambers. Every window that could be unfastened was opened wide to let out the miasma of cedar smoke mingled with honey mead. A stiff sea breeze blew its way down the myriad halls and corridors of Denerim Castle, carrying with it the insistent cries of the gulls.

Once they came to the staircase beside the hunted _halla _portrait, Alistair reached out to anchor his wife's hand in his own. They descended the steps in unison, then kept their fingers twined together as they advanced over the minstrels' gallery.

"Oghren will be _fine," _Alistair said suddenly out loud, his voice echoing off a nearby suit of armour. "He's a dwarf, they're impervious to practically everything."

"What is imp- _imper_\- improv- "

"Immune," he clarified, helpfully. "He'll take it no worse than fire-whiskey. And remember, dwarves have lived near the Darkspawn for generations. Oghren's been in the Deep Roads more often than both of us. He's probably got a strong resistance to the taint already."

Flora nodded, craving every small piece of reassurance that Alistair could offer. Although Oghren had been the one who initiated the idea of becoming a Warden, she could not help but feel some responsibility for their dwarven companion's choice. Daveth's choking, bulging-eyed face rose to the forefront of her mind and she forced it brutally back into the depths of her subconscious.

_I prayed to your memory – as I did for all my dead - a few days ago. I don't want to think about your Joining when my friend is about to undertake his own._

Fortunately, they had just reached the impressive Calenhad window; a sight which always succeeded in drawing Flora's attention. The Solace sun – as yet uncloaked by cloud – shone through the fragments of stained glass, casting a kaleidoscope of colourful patterns on the flagstones.

"This window is like magic," she said out loud as they came to a halt before it. "I don't understand how they put colours in glass."

Pressing a finger against the crimson of Calenhad Theirin's tartan kilt, Flora gazed in fascination at her red-lit nail.

"It's very nice," Alistair said dutifully, eyeing his Alamarri ancestor's outfit. "Do you think I should take up wearing a kilt?"

"Ha! Yes! Like the _Vile_ princes of Starkhaven!"

Alistair thought about correcting her, then snickered inwardly and decided not to.

"What did you think of that poem the youngest one was reciting to you at the feast?" he asked, a half-laugh emerging from his throat. "Sebastian. '_Hair red as the sunset in Solace'."_

"I hate poetry," Flora replied, with Herring bluntness. "Why can't they just write their meaning plainly?"

"_Oi! _Have you two been spendin' the morning _shagging, _or what?"

The familiar brogue rang out behind them, and made both Alistair and Flora jump.

Oghren was standing in the corridor, broad arms folded across his chest and an expectant expression writ over his face. Despite the excesses of the previous night, the dwarf appeared both alert and bright-eyed. His ginger moustache and beard had been carefully trimmed, and he had even made an attempt to flatten down his wiry hair with water.

"Thought I'd come and get yeh personally," he said, with bravado. "Make sure yeh weren't thinkin' of skipping out on my big moment."

"Of course not!" Flora hastened to reassure him, wide-eyed.

"We wouldn't miss it," Alistair added, wryly. "Is the – ah - _ceremony_ being held in the Landsmeet chamber?"

This was a guess based on precedent; Loghain's Joining had taken place in the ancient stone meeting hall at the crumbling heart of the palace.

"Aye. Everyone's waitin' on yeh."

"We're LATE?" the ever-punctual Flora demanded in tones of horror. "Oh, no!"

King and dwarf watched in some bemusement as their former Warden-Commander charged off down the corridor, at remarkable speed considering the fullness of her belly.

"Well, despite havin' a bun in the oven," said Oghren, at a loss for anything else to say. "She's still got a great arse."

"Mm."

Preoccupied with gaping after the rapidly diminishing Flora, Alistair absentmindedly agreed with the dwarf before realising what he had said.

"Hey! That's my _wife _you're talking about. The _Hero of Ferelden. _Ender of the Fifth Blight. Slayer of the Archdemon! You're not allowed to comment on her - her- her _posterior!"_

"Nice and perky."

"_Oghren!"_

"Eh, take it as a compliment, lad."

At a more sedentary pace, king and dwarf followed Flora out into the entrance hall. The decorations for the wedding – draped laurel and Highever banners – were being taken down; servants teetering on high ladders to reach the lofty rafters. Several dozen wedding guests were making a slow exit, retainers swarming around them like workers about a queen bee. Most of the visiting dignitaries – save for the Marcher lords engaging in trade talks – would be sailing from Denerim that day; taking advantage of the favourable tide and eastern winds.

Flora was heading determinedly down the centre of the hall, towards the vast wooden doors denoting the entrance to the Landsmeet chamber. Many of the wedding guests recognised the newlywed queen, either hailing her or dipping into respectful bows.

"Your Majesty!"

"Queen Florence!"

Seeing that she was clearly in a hurry, nobody made any attempt to waylay her.

Flora was so preoccupied with the thought of being _late _that she was not disconcerted by either their choice of address, or their attention. The Royal Guard flanking the Landsmeet entrance shifted their pikes in acknowledgement of her arrival.

Alistair caught her up with his lengthier stride just as she came to a halt; Oghren arriving a few paces behind.

"Sweetheart, you're faster than a Fereldan Forder!"

Flora let out a little grunt, shifting impatiently from foot to foot as the guards pushed open the doors into the Landsmeet chamber.

The ancient assembly hall opened up before them, smelling of mildew and old stone; the tiered wooden benches rising on both sides of the room. Within the crumbling walls of the Landsmeet chamber, some of the most notable events in Ferelden's history had taken place. Beneath these vaulted eaves, five hundred years prior, Calenhad had formally united the nation beneath the banner of Theirin. During the Steel Age, when the Avvar invaded Ferelden under the great warlord Balak, the lords of the bannorn oversaw the defence of Denerim from this chamber's lofty balcony. The wooden benches were scarred with derisive sword-thrusts from when the Orlesians swarmed the palace at the apex of the Blessed Age. Most recently within these historic walls, the lady Cousland had usurped the pretender Mac Tir from power after revealing her three great armies decamped on the plains below.

_I remember when Alistair and I did it in here, _Flora thought vaguely to herself, betraying a woeful ignorance of much of the room's historic past. _Just on that bench over there._

She turned to Alistair and was about to ask whether he too remembered, when she noticed his expression. Her husband's face was wreathed in the steely, tight-lipped neutrality that he reserved specially for Loghain Mac Tir. The two men had been on civil terms for several months – mostly due to Loghain saving Flora's life on two separate occasions – but there was still a distinct chilliness to the king's demeanour whenever he came face to face with the former general. Loghain was standing in the centre of the room alongside his co-commander, the Orlesian Leonie Caron; both clad in full Grey Warden regalia. Before them stood a gaggle of new recruits, whom Flora recognised from the wedding. A female dwarf with black, geometric tattoos inked across her face was murmuring quietly to a blonde elven mage, whose long hair was bound up in an intricate series of braids. Beside them, another blond mage – but male, and human – was lounging on a lower bench with an amused expression.

Loghain canted his head measuredly towards Alistair, who tightened his lips instead of offering a response. Unbothered by the cool reception, the new Warden's gaze moved across to Flora. Swiftly, he appraised her from crown to belly - and the corner of his lip quirked upwards in reluctant approval. 

"Recruits!" Leonie Caron's sharp, accented voice rang out across the chamber. "Salute in the presence of former Warden-Commander Cousland, vanquisher of the Fifth Blight, and Warden Alistair Theirin, second in command!"

The recruits obediently saluted and bowed; their curious glances settling on Ferelden's king and queen as they raised their heads. Flora, meanwhile, let her gaze fall on the blond mage standing at the end of the row.

"I know you!" she exclaimed, as he grinned and nodded to confirm her recognition. "We were in the Circle together. Angus? Adders?"

"_Anders," _corrected the mage, with an indolent smile. "Though I might change my name to _Adder, _if I thought being named after a snake would strike fear into the hearts of the Darkspawn. Anyway, I'm surprised that you recall me, your majesty. Most of my Circle years were spent being locked up by our Templar _protectors_."

"No, I do remember you," Flora said, recalling a chance meeting that they'd had on the tower roof. Anders had snuck up there to gauge the possibility of escape; while she was preoccupied with trying to catch a glimpse of the sea.

"And I remember_ you," _he replied, letting out a dark cackle of amusement. "Quite an elevation, to go from cleaning corridors to wearing crowns in the span of a year."

"Well, the Maker moves in mysterious ways," Loghain interrupted bluntly, and Flora shot him a grateful glance. "Now, let's meet this potential recruit. Step forward, dwarf, and explain why you want to join this _esteemed _Order."

Loghain Mac Tir knew well enough who Oghren was – he remembered him lying prostrate beneath a vat of honey mead the previous night – but desired to hear the dwarf express himself in his own words.

The dwarf stepped forwards and lifted his chin, and Flora found herself biting her lip anxiously. She need not have worried: when the dwarf spoke, the words emerged clear and confident.

"In Orzammar, I did nothin' but drink for nigh on ten years. I was the one parents'd use as a _cautionary tale _for their little ones. _'Study your craft well, or you'll end up a waster like Oghren!'. _I didn't see no purpose in anythin'. Then I met these two, here- "

He gestured roughly over his shoulder towards where Flora and Alistair stood, a rueful smile curling over his face.

"Pair o' clueless numpties, the both of 'em- plannin' to go down into the _Deep Roads!_ Well, I felt so sorry for the misguided pair that I kindly volunteered to assist – they'd be dead meat without me - "

"_Ahem,"_ a slightly indignant Alistair protested; then was elbowed by Flora, who was enchanted by the dwarf's revisionist history.

" – and after we were down there… Well. I decided to stick around, _knew _they'd need my help. Was the first time I'd followed anythin' other than the scent of the bottle in _years. _And – somewhere along the way – I found a _new_ purpose."

"Which is?" enquired Loghain, steadily.

"To stop the Darkspawn," Oghren replied, his voice equally even. "To crush them in their holes, destroy their nests, drive 'em deeper underground so they never think to show their stinkin' faces again. We dwarves _are _their oldest enemy, after all."

The female dwarf – with the black facial tattoos – lifted her chin slightly in acknowledgement of the truth in this.

"But you still drink, dwarf," Leonie Caron interjected, her Orlesian tones oddly incongruous within this stone-walled heart of Fereldan politics.

"Aye, and I always will," replied Oghren, cheerfully. "But it ain't my purpose no more. It ain't the reason I get up in the mornin'."

To her dismay, Flora realised that tears were welling up in the corners of her eyes. She sniffled quietly under her breath, wiping her nose surreptitiously with her sleeve.

Leonie Caron and Loghain glanced at one another, and the former gave a slight nod.

"Step forward, dwarf," she instructed, raising her voice so that it rang up to the vaulted ceiling.

The other recruits immediately stiffened, aware of the significance of the upcoming minutes. From the alertness of their demeanour, they had clearly witnessed Joinings that had gone terribly wrong_, _in addition to those which had succeeded.

Loghain retrieved the silver chalice from where it had been resting on a nearby bench. It was not the one that Flora remembered from her own Joining – clearly, that had been lost at Ostagar – but it was similar in craftsmanship. The liquid inside made a distinct viscous _slop_ as it was moved, and Oghren licked his lips in readiness.

Flora felt her heartbeat escalate within her chest, so loud that she worried that it would be audible. Her fingers stretched out reflexively, only to meet Alistair's hand already reaching for hers. Their fingers wrapped together in their own little ritual, his thumb moving over her knuckles in reassuring circles.

_He'll be fine, _Flora thought fiercely to herself. _He'll be fine._

"Join us, brother – join us in the shadows," Leonie declared, with the ringing confidence of one who had uttered these lines many times in the past. "Join us as we stand, vigilant. Join us, as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice shall not be forgotten, and that one day, we shall join you."

Loghain stepped forward, extending the silver chalice to the dwarf. Oghren reached out and took it in both hands, licking his lips in preparation. He was not ignorant of the contents – after all, he had once accompanied Sten, Flora and Riordan to retrieve some Darkspawn blood for Loghain's own Joining – but showed no hesitation in raising the chalice to his lips.

Flora felt Alistair's grip clench on hers and she squeezed his fingers tightly back, her stomach curdling as though it had been her taking a sip of the tainted blood.

The dwarf took a long gulp, tilting his head back as though imbibing a tankard of Orzammar's finest brew. Moments later, he gave a long burp; wiping his mouth with the back of his arm.

"Oi," he protested, immediately. "Is this the watered-down version for kiddies? Bring out the _strong _stuff!"

Loghain muttered something under his breath, while Leonie quickly recovered from her astonishment.

"Welcome to the Order, brother-warden," she announced, stepping forward to take the chalice. "We welcome you as a new recruit."

"Thanks, your commander-ness," replied Oghren, casting an appraising eye over the suspicious tattooed dwarf and supercilious blonde elf. "I quite fancy the idea of gettin' to know my new _sister-wardens. _After all, it worked out well for old King Alistair, here."

"Congratulations, Oghren," Alistair offered, grinning across at their old companion. "The Darkspawn will be quaking in their nests when they learn that you've joined the Wardens."

Flora was still clutching Alistair's hand, light-headed with relief. A moment later, she realised that she was also light-headed _in general -_ in this final term of carrying the babe, spells of dizziness had begun to overtake the bouts of nausea. The edges of her vision had begun to darken, shadows prickling in the corners of her eyes.

"I need to sit down," she whispered to Alistair. He immediately guided her over to sit on one of the benches; keeping a tight, steadying grip on her elbow. Crouching before her, he reached up to take her face between his palms.

"Deep breaths, sweetheart."

She nodded, forcing herself to inhale slowly rather than to gulp down great mouthfuls of air.

"We have a healer," offered Loghain, gesturing the blond mage forward. "Assist her, Anders."

Flora opened her mouth to say that she did not require assistance, and then saw the anxiety in Alistair's face. More to reassure her husband rather than from necessity, she gave a little nod. Anders came sauntering forwards, leaning his staff against the bench before taking a seat next to her.

"Alistair, we've discovered a Darkspawn nest near Amaranthine," Loghain muttered, and Alistair rose to his feet; gesturing for them to move towards the balcony.

"I don't want her worrying," Flora heard her best friend say quietly. "Tell me over here."

She wanted to stand up and insist that she was _fine, _that she wanted to know about the Darkspawn nest too – after all, she had once, briefly, been _Warden-Commander – _but when Flora made to stand, the shadows encroached rapidly at the corner of her vision once again.

"Hey," the mage beside her protested, eyebrows shooting upwards. "You stay sat down."

Flora obediently returned to the bench, feeling a distinct prickle of frustration. Anders cast an appraising eye over her stomach, assessing the fullness of the curve.

"That's going to be one _big_ baby," he said, after a moment.

Flora grunted; she was grimly aware of the size of the child. They sat quietly for several moments, listening to Oghren boasting of his past exploits to the female recruits. A dozen yards away, Alistair stood with Leonie Caron and Loghain, immersed in quiet, earnest conversation.

"I bet life's a lot easier now that you aren't a mage. Less people chasing you down, eh?"

Flora startled slightly at Anders' comment, turning to peer at him. He was smiling, but there was a slight rawness to the faded blue eyes that spoke volumes.

"It's different," she replied after a moment, thinking. "Not _easier. _I miss my spirits every day."

"Of course, you were a _spirit healer, _weren't you? Somehow, I have a feeling that's going to get lost in the historical narrative."

Anders smirked as Flora shot him an astonished glance. For a moment it was as though they were two mage apprentices again, sitting atop the Circle tower roof while he confessed his desire to escape.

"What do you mean?"

"Ah, I'd bet you a hundred gold that by the next Age, the scribes will have recast you as a noble _warrior,_ and nobody will be around to correct them."

"But that's not _true!" _Flora protested, horrified at the thought of her spirits' sacrifice being so deliberately forgotten. "I am- I _was _a spirit healer. That's the only reason I was even able to defeat the Archdemon, with the help of my spirits."

"Well, nobody likes giving mages credit for anything," replied Anders, with a little snort. "Or spirits, for that matter."

Flora felt silent, her brow furrowed. Alistair, Loghain and Leonie Caron were still at the far end of the chamber, silhouetted against the summery light streaming in from the Alamarri balcony.

Absentmindedly Anders raised his hand and focused, letting wisps of golden healing energy rise upwards from his palm. Flora turned her head as though in a dream, her eyes widening as the ethereal miasma rose from the mage's fingertips, gilded and intangible. She reached out to touch it with her own useless fingers, feeling the achingly familiar effervescence of the arcane rippling over her skin.

_Not yours. Never yours, again._

The grief was so strong that it was a physical pain, a thrust to the gut like the kick of a horse's hoof. Flora doubled over as though somebody had swung their fist into her stomach. Beside her, Anders' face contracted in horror. He first assumed that something had happened with the babe, then made the connection between his own casual action and her subsequent agonised reaction.

"Ah, Maker- _sorry - "_

Flora got up quickly, _too _quickly for somebody with a babe pressing against the vessels of her body. The world contracted about her in a mass of black shadows but she kept walking forwards, forcing herself to focus on the great wooden doors. She made it to the doorway, stumbling inelegantly out into the entrance hall and leaving the Landsmeet chamber – and the manifested magic - behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Aah, poor Flo! It's the first time that she's come into contact with healing magic – which she used to conjure so effortlessly – since she had her connection with the Fade severed. Typical her though, lol, to enter this chamber steeped in Ferelden's history… and be like HEY REMEMBER WE SHAGGED IN HERE? Hahaha
> 
> The bit that Oghren says – about the dwarves being the Darkspawn's oldest enemies – was actually taken from the speech that Flora gave to the deshyr in Orzammar when winning their help.
> 
> I don't often copy dialogue directly from the game, but I loved the Joining speech bit so much I had to include it!


	65. To Create Life, Without Magic

The problem with the Royal Palace was that - essentially - it was public domain. The size of a village, and with the population to match; it was a hive of constant activity. Very few spaces within the castle could be classed as quiet, and even _fewer _as private. Fortunately, the entrance hall was quieter than it had been earlier, many guests having already departed. Reason fought emotion for dominance in Flora's mind; she knew that she could not break down in such a public space, and yet she _had _to relieve herself of the immense pressure building within her. The sight – the _touch _– of the healing magic had brought back a storm-surge of grief and frustration that had lain dormant for weeks.

Flora came to a halt in the centre of the entrance hall, head swivelling as she tried to think of some quiet place that she could unleash her tears. The servants would be cleaning the Royal bedchamber; the Chantry would be occupied with morning prayers; the towers and battlements were patrolled by guards.

"Lady Cousland – sorry – _your majesty?"_

The voice was tentative and familiar. Flora turned around to see a middle aged man, dressed in much-patched clothing and sporting a hopeful expression. As she turned around, he whipped his cap from his head and bowed; deep and respectful. After a moment, she placed his face – it was the mayor of Gwaren, leader of the teyrnir's fledgling restoration committee.

"Ma'am, I just wanted to tell you that we've moved our meeting location," he mumbled, eyes fixed on the moth-eaten blue carpet. "We thought it didn't seem proper for the _queen of Ferelden _to come to a grubby warehouse. So we've hired a room in the Gnawed Noble, just off the marketplace."

Flora blinked at him, slightly dazed, the grief vibrating along her bones like a mage's errant spell. The mayor peered at her pale, solemn face, and doubt flickered in his eyes.

"Unless… you've changed your mind about supporting us?" he asked, a note of trepidation creeping into the words. "Does the king – does the king not approve? It's not Gwaren's fault that our teyrn betrayed the throne. "

_Pull yourself together, Flora, _she thought to herself, fiercely. _This man represents people who have lost everything- their home, family, children, livelihoods. Put your own grief back where it belongs and deal with it later._

Flora inhaled, stepping forward to put an instinctive hand of reassurance on the mayor's elbow. _Mairyn's Star _glinted on her finger, sitting above the twisted golden rope of the wedding band.

_Call on your Herring grit._

"Of course I've not changed my mind," she replied, earnestly. "Thank you for telling me about the meeting place. I'll be there, I promise. I'm bringing Finian - my brother – he's agreed to help out with anything that the Gwaren restoration committee needs. "

"As have I."

The mayor's eyes slid past Flora then widened; the man dropped into his second bow in the same span of minutes.

"King Alistair!"

Flora swivelled round to see her best friend come to a halt on the flagstones, his hazel eyes resting brief and concerned on her face before turning to the mayor of Gwaren. The mayor rose tentatively, fingers trembling as he clutched his cap to his chest.

"The queen will tell me what you need," Alistair said steadily, his voice firm and full of assurance. "It's vital that we build up our southern economy again, and we need our refugees re-homed. I'm sorry for the troubles that you've been through during the Blight."

The mayor bowed once more, mumbling his gratitude.

"Thank you, your majesty! _Majesties._"

The Gwaren native retreated backwards, face flushed with hope; offering several more bows on his way to the door. They watched him disappear between the great stone Mabari that guarded the entrance; a brief shaft of sunlight penetrating the gloom as the door opened.

The next moment Alistair turned to face his wife, lifting her chin with a thumb and peering down into her eyes. Although Flora had successfully arrested the tears before they could escape, he could interpret the minute changes in her face better than anyone else. They had spent nine months sleeping with their heads on the same pillow; Alistair could read her solemn grey eyes like the fisherman Pel could read the sky above the sea.

He looked down at her now and saw the sadness just barely suppressed, the grief provoked by touching the creation energy - which had once flowed so freely from her own fingers. The fleck of gold floating on her pale iris gleamed as though newly polished.

Flora hoped furiously that he would not ask her what was wrong – something guaranteed to release the flood-barriers and send gallons of saltwater down her cheeks. Fortunately, Alistair had already deciphered the cause of her misery from speaking with Anders, and instead bowed his head to kiss her very gently on the forehead.

"Sweetheart," he breathed, letting his thumb meander over the line of her jaw. "I'm sorry. Why didn't you come to me, my love?"

"You were speaking with Loghain and… and _Lion_," Flora replied, mangling Leonie's Orlesian cognomen. "About important things. I didn't want to interrupt you."

"_Always _interrupt me," Alistair retorted fiercely, his eyes bright. "I mean it, Flora. I don't give a shit what it is – a council meeting, a Landsmeet session _– _you come to _me."_

Flora peered up at him and the king softened his tone, sliding his fingers into her hair and thumbing the shell-like curve of her ear.

"_You're_ my priority, you and the baby," he murmured, tender and earnest. "Let me comfort you, like I vowed to do before the Maker yesterday. My own sweet wife."

She nodded mutedly, standing on her toes and craning her neck to kiss him on the cheek. Alistair wound his fingers into hers, giving her hand a squeeze.

"I've got a wedding present for you," he said, softly. "I was going to show you this evening, but I think I'll show you now, instead. Let's say farewell to Oghren."

The Grey Wardens of Ferelden took their leave shortly afterwards; gathered on the gravel forecourt before the Royal Palace as stable boys ran to retrieve their mounts. Oghren – who was grinning from ear to ear – could barely wait to get on the road.

"All this sittin' about in a palace has got my feet itchy," he said to Alistair, shielding his eyes against the sun. "Can't wait to swing my axe into some stinkin' walking corpses."

"Kill some Darkspawn for me," Alistair replied with a wry and slightly wistful grin. "And I hope you have a safe journey to Vigil's Keep."

This second part was directed in neutral terms up to where Loghain was already mounted; his dark Mac Tir eyes scrutinising their route on the map.

"Aye. I'll write when we learn more about the Darkspawn nest," the Warden replied, with a small grunt. "Please pass on my… regards to Anora."

Alistair nodded, grimacing. It was common knowledge around the palace that Anora – who still refused to leave her quarters – had also refused the opportunity to see her father, despite their meeting being permitted by the King's Council.

A stable boy led up the short, stocky pony that Oghren had been using for the past few weeks. The dwarf gave the pony a quick scratch behind the ears, before reaching up to strap his battle-axe to its saddle. Oghren then turned to king and queen, who had been standing a short distance away on the gravel.

"Right," he said, jovially. "I'll see yeh both when I see yeh then, eh?"

"Will you come back to see the baby when it's born?" Flora asked, hopefully.

"Depends if I can get the time off," replied Oghren with a little cackle, then relented when she looked distraught. "Ah, don't go runnin' off bawling again, lassie. I'm sure your hubby could write me some _royal dispensation, _or somethin' o' the like."

"I want the baby to meet the _bravest_ dwarf I've ever known," Flora continued, a touch melodramatically. Oghren gave a guffaw to hide the sudden gleam of emotion in his eyes.

"Well, I could never say no to a pretty face! Come'ere, give your old man a hug. I promise not to grope yeh this time."

Flora went to embrace him and the dwarf was as good as his word, patting her companionably on the small of her back.

"Make sure you take it easy over the next couple'o months, dolly," he told her, sternly. "Don't work too hard. If anyone deserves a holiday, it's you."

"What is '_holiday'?"_ asked Flora, obliviously.

Oghren snorted, shooting a pointed little glance up at Alistair as he withdrew.

"See yeh later, Prince Charmin'!"

Flora inhaled a gulp of air – it had been an emotional morning – and leaned against Alistair's side. He put an arm around her shoulders, keeping her steady beside him. Together, the two former Wardens watched the new Fereldan Order proceed slowly down the main road; the tails of the horses whipping away the flies as they trod the gravel. The midday sun bore down overhead, shortening their shadows until they were lost within the mass of amputated trees, disappearing over the brow of the hill.

Flora gazed after her old companion for a moment, remembering when he had first approached them in Tapster's Tavern, preferred drinking-house of the dwarfs of Orzammar. She'd had her hands cuffed – the locals were suspicious of mages – and Alistair was feeding her mouthfuls of stew, when a dwarf reeking of a brewery had crash-landed in the booth opposite them.

_I hear you're goin' down to the Deep Roads, _he'd said; the words slurring together half-formed. _You'll need an expert guide, and that's me. I'm comin' with yeh._

"Right," said Alistair softly, once the horse bearing the scowling blond elf had vanished over the horizon. "Ready for your present?"

"Yes," Flora replied in a small voice, swallowing. "I'm ready."

Alistair led her back into the entrance hall, between the great stone Mabari guarding the doorway. Servants and nobles moved aside to make way for them; many still murmuring congratulations for their recent nuptials.

They headed down a wide stone passage that branched off the hall, lined on both sides with stone arches and freestanding candelabra. Flora recognised a corridor on the left that led towards the castle's Chantry; a twisting staircase on the right descended to the dungeons. Two ever-present Royal Guardsmen followed at a tactful distance, their booted footsteps echoing about the stone walls.

Alistair squeezed her palm tightly against his own, nudging her into yet another narrow passageway that sloped gently downwards. This corridor was lit by torches fixed at regular intervals on the walls; decorated with moth-eaten tapestries in faded shades of crimson and black.

Halfway down this narrow passageway Flora inhaled, nostrils flaring outwards as they detected a familiar salt-edged scent.

"Where- "

"Almost there," Alistair replied evasively, leading her towards a small wooden door at the end of the corridor.

As he nudged it open, Flora put her hand to her eyes to shade them from the sudden, startling sunlight. Still clutching Alistair's hand, she stepped through the doorway and looked around her in astonishment.

Rather than leading to yet another stone passageway, the door had led out into a small courtyard garden located within the interior of the castle. Ivy ran up the walls, climbing determinedly up towards the high, decorative windows – one of them Flora recognised as the great stained glass Calenhad that marked the entrance to the Royal wing.

The courtyard garden itself consisted of a sunny, cobbled square, bordered with grass on three sides. Earthen beds had already been built up; a wooden planter ran along one wall, near a cluster of empty ceramic pots in a variety of sizes. In one corner, a slender pear tree drooped over a small brick well. Diagonally opposite, a stone bench rested against the wall; carved with sculpted relief patterns. It was a little haven of quiet within the busy palace, accessible only through the wooden door by which they had entered.

Flora stared around for a moment, and then turned to Alistair with her brow furrowed.

"This is for you to use, if… if you want to," he said, slightly hesitant. "You can collect seeds and clippings from the northern coast – or anywhere we go on the progress – and then plant them here. Flowers, vegetables, herbs – anything you want."

Since Flora was still gazing at him, wide-eyed and speechless, Alistair ploughed on determinedly.

"I know you can't make things grow just by prodding them with your finger anymore," he continued quickly, not wanting to upset her. "But you can still make things grow. Create – create life _without _magic. By your own hand."

Flora's pale eyes gleamed suddenly, and Alistair grew alarmed that he had made a mistake.

"Or – if it's a bad idea, just say so," he assured her, hastily. "Honestly, Flo – if this isn't your idea of _fun,_ just tell- "

His sentence was ended abruptly as the air was squeezed from his lungs; forced out by the desperate clutch of her arms as Flora embraced him. Even if she had desired to suppress this new surge of tears, it would have been utterly impossible to do so. Instead, she let out a muffled wail into his leather-clad chest, fingers groping blindly at his back.

Alistair clutched her equally hard in return, feeling the rounded swell of her stomach pressing against his abdomen. He bowed his head to tuck her into his chest; resting his chin neatly within the centre of the golden circlet.

"Ssh, baby- it's a present," he murmured into her hair, stroking his thumb in a line down the centre of her back. "You're not meant to _cry_ when someone gives you a present, they're _good _things."

Flora tilted her head back and beamed up at him, eyes bright with unshed tears beneath the dampened lashes. Reaching out, she pushed her fingers beyond his hairline, smoothing the rumpled golden strands flat.

"Thank you," she croaked, her voice still a fraction unsteady. "I can't wait to grow things – to grow things _with my own hand._ But I haven't got you nothing – haven't got you _anything_ in return."

Flora's face crumpled briefly in distress; hastily, Alistair drew her against him, turning her bodily so that her shoulder-blades were pressed to his chest. He inhaled the clean, soapy scent of his best friend's hair, murmuring in her ear.

"I'd give you the _moon_, my love. I'd give you everything in the sky if you asked for it."

_Hm, _thought Flora, leaning back against Alistair's strong chest and pondering. _How can I repay you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Hmmmm I don't know, Flo, how could you POSSIBLY repay him? Lol.
> 
> Anyway, this was a fun chapter to write! I thought that a garden would be quite therapeutic for Flora, since it involves the 'creation of life', and growing things – it's not healing magic, but there are some parallels there. Plus, her name literally means 'flower', so it's fitting, haha.


	66. A Gift From The Queen

The newlyweds were alone in the queen's sunny courtyard garden; the Royal Guard waiting tactfully on the other side of a closed door. Alistair ducked to close the difference in their heights, pressing his lips beneath Flora's ear in a soft, lingering kiss. Flora shivered, leaning her head back against his chest to show him the full, pale length of her throat.

Such a blatant invitation clearly begged to be acted upon. The king's mouth brushed a leisurely meander over the bare skin; using tongue and lips to deliver lazy, languid kisses to her neck until she was flushed and trembling before him.

When Alistair eventually paused for breath, Flora swivelled in his arms to face him once again, her palms coming up to frame his bearded cheeks. Pulling his head down, she sought out his mouth impatiently; seeking to show her gratitude for his gift through the ardour of her lips. Alistair returned her desire readily, letting out a groan even as he reached down to caress the small of her back. As the kiss deepened, his confident fingers slid down further to spread over her rear; there was no trace left of the fumbling amateur from the Brecilian Forest.

Yet Flora was determined not to let him dictate the course of the next few minutes. Most of the time when they made love, her best friend was so focused on pleasuring _her_ that she barely got to touch _him _before they were actually engaged in the act of coupling. Unfortunately, her resolve almost vanished with the first touch of Alistair's tongue to her nipple. He had tugged impatiently at the laces of her tunic, pulling them until the navy folds loosened to reveal her bare breasts. A throaty sound of desire escaped his lips and he pressed his mouth to one ripe, creamy mound.

"Mm- baby- "

Only the feel of his arousal against her thigh – hard as iron beneath the supple leather of his breeches – brought Flora to her senses.

_You wanted to thank him. Don't get distracted!_

Anchoring her fingers to Alistair's breeches, Flora lowered herself to her knees; grateful that they were standing on a patch of grass. She reached up to remove the gilded flower crown from her head, placing it carefully to one side before lifting her soft, grey gaze to Alistair's face. Her husband's features were contorted with concern, affectionate hands reaching down to touch her cheeks and her shoulders with soft, tender caresses.

"My love," he breathed, anxiously. "Is that uncomfortable? You don't have to – you're _with child-"_

Yet Alistair's concern was betrayed by his own arousal, which had begun to strain urgently against the leather of his breeches at the sight of his kneeling wife.

Flora dropped her gaze from his worried face, lifting a finger to prod tentatively at the complicated silver fastening of his belt.

"Please, I want to," she whispered, then pressed an impulsive kiss to the leather covering the throbbing flesh. "Let me?"

With a muffled groan at his own inability to resist, Alistair reached down to fumble quickly with the belt; loosening his breeches enough to thrust them down his thighs. Flora beamed up at him in approval and wet her full, sulky Cousland lips in preparation.

As the midday bell rang to mark the gleaming Solace sun at its apex, the palace began to settle back into its normal daytime rhythms. The Pentaghast clan were the last guests to depart from the castle; dominating the entrance hall with their strongly-accented chatter as their sweating retainers hauled luggage onto waiting carts. Up in the high tower containing the palace archives, scribes with carefully neutral expressions transcribed the notes taken by both Arl Myrddin and Mother Telatia into official records. This dually-verified account of the consummation would act as legal proof of the marriage – and officially legitimise the unborn heir.

The main council chamber – with the great statues of Calenhad, Moira and Maric flanking the three walls – was in the process of being set up for the afternoon's trade meeting. Extra chairs and tables had been brought in from the great hall to accommodate the Marcher lords, although their own scribes and secretaries would need to stand. Eamon, as Chancellor, was overseeing the preparations; he was determined to re-open normal trade routes across the Waking Sea as soon as possible. The arl also expected that Alistair would take a more active role during this particular meeting. The new king had grown in confidence over the past six weeks; beginning to make some astute points and ask pertinent questions during council sessions.

Fifty yards to the west of the council chamber, the king himself was relying on the castle wall at his back to keep him upright. His knees were shuddering beneath him, sweat was dripping from his hair into his eyes and a protuberant brick was grazing his bare buttock; yet each of these discomforts went wholly ignored. Alistair was too focused on the shuddering waves radiating outwards from his core; each over-stimulated nerve running hot and liquid with pure, animal pleasure.

He had lost the ability to speak coherently sometime prior, and now only low, throaty moans escaped his dry lips; interrupted by the occasional grunt or instruction for his wife _not to stop. _His pleasured groans, along with the soft wet sound of her lips, echoed about the walls of the small garden courtyard.

His determined new bride had no intention of stopping. She had found a position resting back on her heels that was comfortable, and had settled into a rhythm that Alistair seemed to be enjoying. One of his hands rested lightly on her head, fingers tangled in her hair; the other hand was braced against the wall.

_I'll never tire of looking at him, _Flora thought to herself, feeling a twist of mingled pride and desire as she let her eyes wander over her husband's body. _He's the best looking person I've ever seen._

She had already admired the strength of Alistair's broad, muscular thighs – it was impossible _not _to appreciate them from her current vantage point – and although he was still clad in his tunic, the thin garment could not disguise the tautness of his abdomen or the impressive breadth of his shoulders. His handsome, olive face was contorted with the effort of maintaining control; strong jaw clenched and noble brow furrowed. There was a great deal of power resident within her best friend's bulky frame, which made his ability to touch her with such gentle reverence even more remarkable.

Flora was so busy daydreaming that she failed to notice the sudden contortion of Alistair's face; a strangulated gasp of warning breaking free from his throat.

"Sweetheart, I- I'm – ah, _Maker!"_

He let out a helpless half-shout, fingers curling tight into her hair as his abdomen contracted. Flora – taken by surprise - almost tipped over backwards in shock, a startled expression on her face.

Alistair leaned against the stone with his vision contracted to small dots; every muscle in his body seemed to have _liquefied_. For several long moments, he inhaled ragged gasps of air with his head tilted back against the wall, staring unseeing up at the midday sun.

Forcing himself to regain some composure, the king reached down with an unsteady hand to stroke his queen's cheek. Having recovered from his unexpected climax, she smiled up at him; proud of her efforts and pleased that he'd enjoyed them.

"My love, let's get you upright. Your knee," Alistair murmured, conscious of the leather strapping around Flora's weak joint. "Come on, sweetheart, up we go."

He helped her to her feet, first bending down to brush the stray fragments of sun-baked grass from her leggings, and then to retrieve the gilded crown from where it sat incongruously on the gravel. Flora let him replace it carefully atop her head, flattening the rumpled strands of hair.

"Thank you for the garden," she repeated as they headed hand-in-hand towards the doorway.

"And thank _you _for – well. You know."

Flora smiled sideways at him, and Alistair let out a bark of laughter; squeezing her palm tightly against his own. He ducked his head to her ear, lowering his voice as they approached the guards waiting patiently on the other side of the door.

"I'll return the favour later, baby."

* * *

The king's council convened shortly afterwards in the meeting chamber, attended by representatives from Ostwick, Starkhaven and Kirkwall. Flora – whose Gwaren restoration committee meeting did not start until later in the afternoon – parted from her husband in the entrance hall; watching Alistair disappear behind the great oak doors with the inexplicable little twist of melancholy that she always felt when they were parted.

Flora stood for a moment on the moth-eaten blue carpet, yawning as servants and retainers moved at a respectable distance about her, their heads bowed. Now that the gilded crown rested on her dark red hair, this number included those who would previously have smiled and greeted her. After residing in the castle for several months, she recognised quite a few of its servants – _he _was the steward who often brought up food to break their fast, _she _cleaned the stained glass Calenhad window every week. Now that Flora had graduated from _Lady Cousland _to _Queen of Ferelden,_ they appeared too hesitant to even acknowledge her.

_Being queen is a little bit like being a mage in the army camp at Ostagar, _Flora thought suddenly to herself. _Nobody wants to look straight at me, they're all a little scared of me._

The comparison was so ridiculous and yet so fitting, that she almost wanted to laugh. Flora had been intending to go straight up to the Mac Tir quarters to speak with Anora; but now she decided to deviate from her plan.

First, she returned to the Royal Bedchamber and – with some difficulty – managed to retrieve something which had been kicked underneath the bed by Leliana the previous night. Once she had a certain bundle of leather and fur tucked beneath her arm, Flora retraced her steps to the entrance hall. Turning on her heel, she then followed a route which had become familiar to her over the past few months – through a discreet wooden door beside a sculpture of a huntsman, along a wide corridor and down a mildewed staircase.

The rush of heated air that met her was in stark contest to the cool dampness of the rest of the castle. The kitchens of the Royal Palace were hollowed out from the bedrock that the great structure sat upon; made up of a series of interconnected stone archways and chambers, with holes cut out into the sea-cliff for ventilation. A small, subterranean stream ran through the centre of the kitchens; a happy accident of design which provided a constant supply of fresh water.

Flora knew the layout of the kitchens well – just as she had become familiar with the kitchens of both Redcliffe and South Reach castles. She passed turning spits and vast, bubbling iron cauldrons; ducking through a room with bushels of hanging herbs and along a corridor cluttered with iron cooking utensils. Making a quick detour into the vegetable pantry, she reached into a storage crate to retrieve a handful of carrots, wedging them down the front of her tunic.

A short time later, she reached her intended goal. The main preparation area of the kitchens was a vast, pillar-lined space, smoke-filled and sweltering from six open hearths. The odour of roasting meat was overwhelming, and Flora felt her stomach curdle in protest.

_Yes, I know you don't like the smell, _she thought down to the fidgeting baby. _But you can deal with it for a while longer._

Flora set eyes on the person she had been looking for – a stout, grizzle-haired Fereldan by the name of Albin. According to Guillaume, Albin had worked in the palace since he was a child; rising through the ranks from humble pot-boy to master of the castle kitchens. He ran his domain with the precision of a military officer – keeping order within the noisy, smoke-filled chaos.

Albin was standing beside one of the open hearths, conducting three different tasks simultaneously. One hand stirred a ladle through a thick, vegetable stew, the other brought a pinch of some unidentified spice to his nose; while his mouth loudly berated an underling for dropping a tray of marzipan fancies.

"Two hours, those took to make; _two hours _with my best almond butter imported from Anti – _Andraste's smouldering pyre!"_

This exclamation was the result of the kitchen-master suddenly noticing Flora standing patiently amidst the culinary turmoil, the bright gold of the crown a metallic point within the smoke and heat. Albin immediately whipped off his cap and dropped, sweating, into a bow.

"_The Queen!" _he roared, still awkwardly bent at the portly waist. "Get in here, nugs! It's Queen Florence."

Kitchen staff immediately flooded in from all directions beneath the arches, pulling off caps with flour-covered fingers and dipping into bows. Excitable pot-boys nudged each other and whispered under their breath; while cooks tried to wipe their grubby hands on their skirts.

Flora, who had naively not expected activity to grind to a halt at her arrival, blinked for a moment, shifting the leather bundle higher on her hip.

"Your Majesty," murmured Albin, eyes respectfully lowered. "How may we help you?"

"I wanted to come and thank you for yesterday," replied Flora, earnestly. "For all the effort you went to in preparing the feast. You must have been working for _days _to make it all, and it was the best food I've ever tasted. _Especially _the sea-food."

This was not strictly true – nothing was better than her father's smoked trout – but Flora pressed on, determinedly.

"And everybody was _so_ impressed," she continued, as Albin raised his gaze to settle on her face. "All the foreign guests. They stuffed themselves like fat turkeys. My brother Finian's belt broke because he ate too much."

One of the pot-boys let out a giggle, and was promptly cuffed round the ear by a nearby elven butler.

"Anyway," Flora said, her pale eyes meeting Albin's curious stare. "Thank you so much for all your hard work. I wanted to give you this to divide up between you all – apparently, it's worth something?"

She gave a little shrug, handing over the bundle of leather to Albin. The kitchen-master unwrapped it, and his jaw dropped indecorously. The soft, rich darkness of the calfskin was immediately recognisable, trimmed with fur and supple to the touch. A ripple of recognition went about the crowd of servants, elbows nudging into ribs and whispers flying like birds.

"Your majesty, this is your wedding gown," Albin croaked, wide-eyed.

Flora nodded – she had gone up to the Royal Bedchamber to fetch it, crouching on hands and knees to claw it out from beneath the bed.

"Yes. People will buy bits of it, won't they? Alistair told me that it's _tradition_."

"Yes, ma'am – they certainly will. It's... a most _generous _gift."

Flora nodded and then remembered to smile; countering the natural solemnity of her face.

"Thank you so much for all your hard work," she repeated, in her soft, hoarse-edged northern accent. "Alistair and I both appreciate it, _a lot."_

"Your Majesty!" croaked Albin, bowing once more.

The rest of the kitchen staff followed his example, and Flora almost wanted to bow as well _just to fit in._ She managed to restrain herself, shifting her weight onto her stronger leg as her strapped knee gave a brief grumble of protest.

"Would somebody please show me the quickest way up to the Mac Tir quarters?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: The cutting up and selling of bits of the bridal wedding gown is an old medieval tradition, too! I thought it would be a nice way for Flora to thank the kitchen staff for cooking up all those complicated sounded dishes from the feast, hehe.
> 
> So, next chapter, Flora is going up to see Anora – her teyrn's daughter counterpart (see the parallel in their names!) That's going to go well (not).


	67. Two Queens Come Face To Face

A short while later, an elven servant left Flora in a wide, sunlit corridor that she had never ventured down before. Astonished that there were _still _parts of the castle which remained unknown to her, Flora swivelled her head to take stock of her surroundings. This was clearly a newer wing of the castle – the stone bricks were more evenly cut, the mortar-paste between them showing less decay. Arrow slits were spaced at regular intervals, letting in beams of sunlight to illuminate the faded tapestries on the walls. Fresh rushes had been strewn over the flagstones, and the mildewed dampness of the rest of the old castle had yet to pervade this far.

At the far end of the corridor, a set of wooden doors were guarded by no less than half a dozen Royal Guard. As Flora approached, they shifted their pikes from hand to hand; the captain lifting his helm to address her.

"Queen Florence!"

Flora paused before replying, her eye caught by the wooden doors behind the armoured soldiers. Like the Cousland doorway – which was decorated with the Highever laurel – this entrance had once proudly borne the arms of the teyrn who had dwelt there. Now, the golden dragon had been unceremoniously daubed over with black paint; only the trace of a gilded snout and the tip of a tail were still visible.

"Is Lady Anora inside?" Flora asked, eyeing the obliterated dragon.

"Yes, madam. She hasn't left the quarters in months."

"Months?" asked Flora, rather stupidly. _"Months?"_

"Aye, majesty. After the Blight was ended, King Alistair gave her permission to walk the castle grounds – under guard – but she refused."

Perplexed, Flora bit at her fingernail. For a moment, she wondered if she should remove the crown and leave it with the soldiers before entering.

_Would she think I was gloating if I wore it?_

_If I take it off, is it obvious that I'm worried that she'd _think_ I was gloating?_

When there was – naturally - no reply from her spirits, Flora let out a little sigh and decided not to overthink it, nodding for the guard to open the doors.

The obliterated Mac Tir dragon yielded to a chamber of approximately the same dimension as the Cousland quarters. The furnishings were velvet, albeit worn and faded, and the furniture was carved from solid Bannorn oak. A hearth smouldered away in one corner, smoke blackening the decorative tiles above. In its prime, it would have been a chamber fit for a teyrn; favouring rustic Fereldan design over fussy Orlesian glamour.

However, this was a room long past its zenith. The window was so smeared with grease and dust that it let in only filtered daylight; casting the chamber in an odd, almost underwater hue. The rushes on the flagstones had not been changed for weeks, and had disintegrated into brownish, wet clumps. Trays containing empty bowls and mugs were scattered on every horizontal surface; growing mould and harbouring small colonies of spiders. A pile of blankets, creased and stained, lay at the foot of the bed.

Flora stopped abruptly in the entrance, her eyes widening in dismay. She swivelled her eyes to the captain, who hastened to explain.

"The prisoner sent away her maid, ma'am. When the servants came in to try and clean, she screamed at them until they left."

Just then, Anora herself appeared at the far side of the chamber, a bundle of silk and velvet gathered in her arms. She was clad in a nightgown, her blonde hair hanging in limp tendrils down her back. Despite the negligence of her external appearance, her pale blue eyes remained as sharp as ever.

"If that's my _father,_ tell him that I don't want to see him- oh!"

The two teyrns' daughters stared at each other across the room; the former and current queen come face to face for the first time since Flora had come across Anora in Loghain's prison cell.

"_You!" _breathed Anora, drawing herself up to her full height. "Have you come here to _gloat?"_

In retrospect, Flora wished that she _had_ taken off the crown. Instead, she beckoned for the guard to leave them alone; which they did with grimaces of unhappiness. Rather than shutting the door entirely, they left it on the jar.

"No,"she replied evenly, avoiding the rotting rushes as she stepped forwards. "Why didn't you want to see your dad before he left? He's going to be away for _months _with the Wardens."

Anora let out an utterly humourless bark of laughter, striding barefoot across the grubby flagstones towards the hearth with the imperious glide of a queen.

"My father is a twice-over traitor. He betrayed my husband first, and now he's betrayed _me. _And before you ask – I know that you're not the _sharpest _dagger in the armoury – he's betrayed me by making his peace with you and Alistair. I heard that he even attended your wedding feast. _Congratulations!"_

Flora managed, with great effort, to stop herself from rolling her eyes at Anora's insult. She was well aware that she was not the most _intellectual _creature in Ferelden; had indeed made her peace with the fact years ago. As Fergus had once joked: out of the three Cousland children, he had inherited the brawn, Finian the brain and Flora the beauty.

"You could have made your peace with Alistair and I, too," the current queen said, her brow furrowing as she watched Anora shake out a gown of fuchsia velvet. "You _still _can. There's no need for you to stay in this room, Alistair doesn't think you're a threat anymore."

Anora let the velvet gown fall into the hearth, using a poker to push it into the heart of the fire. The flames hissed and spat, consuming the dress in seconds until naught but charred fragments of fabric were left in the grate.

"Oh, trust me. I've no plans of usurping you," she said, with bitterness infusing her words like vinegar. "The Mac Tir name is _mud_ across Ferelden. And who would dare to depose a man with the likeness of Maric, married to the Hero of Ferelden? A beautiful young girl, fat with babe? Despite my current appearance, I'm _not _deluded."

_Fat?! _thought Flora indignantly, watching Anora burn the sky-blue gown she had worn on the first day of the Landsmeet. As a bead of sweat ran down the former queen's forehead, Flora decided to change tactic.

"I'm going to the Gwaren restoration committee meeting this afternoon," she explained, gingerly avoiding a teacup that had grown its own colony. "Do you want to come with me? We're going to rebuild the southern port and start up the fishing businesses again. You know Gwaren better than me, and you've got a good head for e- _ekno_\- ergonomics."

"_Economics," _hissed Anora as a great rush of sparks flew up the chimney. "You're right, I _do _have a great understanding of economics. And knowledge of government, and statecraft – I was the _perfect _ruler of this nation. In fact, I _did _rule this nation – ask anyone with a brain!"

"Then why did you let your dad take over after Cailan died?" Flora asked with Herring bluntness, starting to tire of the woman's rhetoric.

Anora stopped short, visibly flinching. Instead of throwing the final gown onto the flames, she clutched the soft green velvet and stroked it absentmindedly with elegant fingers; eyes fixed somewhere far away from her sordid, self-imposed confinement.

While Mac Tir's daughter brooded in silence, Flora could not stop herself from eyeing the mess in her immediate area. Years of chores in the Circle had instilled a desire to _make things neat _– an urge which had not vanished with Flora's steady escalation of station.

After surreptitiously kicking the rotten rushes into one corner, Flora squatted awkwardly down to gather the dirty silverware onto a single tray. Taking a torn fragment of curtain, she rose to her feet and began to wipe at the dust on the side of the doorframe.

Several minutes later, and the deposed queen quite visibly drew herself together; the hard armour falling back over her face like a dropped portcullis.

"I don't know why you bothered to come here," she spat, turning around to face Flora once again. "Did you just want to parade your stomach before me?"

"Wha – _no! _Of course not. I wanted to ask you to come with me to the Gwar- _"_

Struck by a sudden, vehement lash of anger, Anora let loose her father's temper. Swiping up a small, silver chalice with slender fingers, she hurled it across the room. It was most likely intended for the wall_; _but the former queen did not have great aim, and the chalice struck Flora on the corner of the temple. It was merely a glancing blow, but Flora's yelp and the clatter of metal caused the guards to come crowding in.

"The Maker has answered my prayers!" bellowed Anora defiantly from beside the hearth, her eyes flashing pale fire. "Now Alistair will _definitely _execute me. Please, brother-in-law, it will be no trouble – I _welcome_ the void!"

The captain took one look at the startled Flora, who had put her fingers to her bloodied forehead, and inhaled unsteadily. Twisting his head, he barked an order to the soldiers clustered behind him.

"The prisoner has attacked the queen. _Fetch the king!"_

"_Don't _fetch the king," Flora said hastily, and since her word superseded the captain's, the soldiers stayed put. "She didn't attack me."

"But – your majesty – the king ought to be told!"

"I'll… tell him later."

Flora eyed her reflection in a soldier's polished breastplate; lifting up strands of hair to inspect the injury. It was only a half-inch long and already starting to clot, a neat little bump rising up on the side of her forehead.

_Not one of your most successful ideas, Flora. Idiot!_

Rather gloomily, she made her way back towards the entrance hall; her knee giving periodic twinges of protest at this extended wandering about the palace. The baby finally went to sleep inside her, and Flora rested a hand on her stomach, grateful for some respite from its fidgeting.

Finian and Zevran were waiting in the entrance hall, near the stone Mabari hounds guarding the door. The two men had their heads bowed over a sheaf of paper, their cackles audible even from the far end of the hall. When they saw Flora approach, Finian hailed her with a grin.

"Flora, _please _don't tell me that you actually said _'Take me, my king!' _at one point,_" _he implored her, trying to keep a straight face. _"Really?!"_

Flora's face immediately flushed a colour that clashed with her hair, and Finian let out a muffled howl of laughter.

"How did_ you_ get a copy of that?" she demanded, realising that Zevran was wielding the transcript of her wedding night.

"Your elven companion has a friend working in the palace archives," her brother continued, gleefully. "He made a copy."

"It makes for _entertaining _reading," Zevran added, flashing a very white-toothed grin at her. "I never realised that Alistair could be _quite _so crude with his language in the bedchamber. I assume he didn't pick that up in the Chantry, but I heartily approve."

Flora made a little grab for the notes, only for Zevran to whisk them away with a titter of laughter; blowing her a kiss.

"_Mi florita, _don't tell me that you're getting _shy _on me. Alright," he continued, relenting slightly. "I will just check to see if my wager was correct – I placed a bet of ten silver on a certain _position_ – and then you can have them, I swear- "

The elf's voice trailed off abruptly, his eyes narrowing. Flora blinked at Zevran, perplexed as to the sudden change in his expression. He stepped forwards, reaching out to move a thick rope of dark red hair to one side. One eyebrow rose as his pupils contracted; the corner of his lip curling slightly.

"What's this, _dulce?" _he asked, in a carefully measured tone. "More importantly: _who _did this?"

He was staring at the cut on her forehead, which had clotted into a small, maroon smudge atop a pinkish bump. Finian, who had been distracted by a loose button on his riding glove, looked up in alarm.

"Floss!" he breathed, outraged. "Did – did someone _hit_ you?"

"Give me a name, _nena," _Zevran murmured quietly, smiling a dangerous promise even as his hand dropped to his belt.

"Nobody _hit _me," Flora retorted, reaching down to remove the elf's fingers from where they were curling around the hilt of a blade. "I went to see Anora and she thought I was trying to _gloat, _and threw a cup… in my general direction. But not at me. My head just got in the way, I think."

This did not make Zevran any calmer, his nostrils flaring. Finian let out a bark of incredulous laughter, throwing despairing hands into the air.

"Florence, you can't just go and see Anora Mac Tir _on your own – _she was your _enemy _during the Blight, remember? She could have done anything – stabbed you with silverware, pushed you into the hearth - "

"I don't think she would have done that," Flora replied, hastily. "I felt sorry for her. She's living in a – a _pit of filth. _Though… she doesn't pick up after herself, which isn't helping."

Finian groaned, bending his lofty head to inspect the cut closely.

"Still, you shouldn't have gone to see Anora on your own. I know you want her to be involved in this Gwaren committee, but – she's clearly still too angry to be reasoned with at the moment."

Flora grunted, acknowledging the truth in his remark. She turned to Zevran, reaching out to rest her fingers on the hilt of his dagger.

"Your sword stays in its sheath," she said, firmly. "No assassinating Lady Anora."

"Ah, you are too cruel, _nena_."

"Promise me! No assassinating!"

"On one condition," he purred, relenting. "That you say '_sword in sheath' _one more time. It stirs a _fire _in me."

Flora stuck her tongue out at him and Zevran laughed, his eyes still focused like small, black darts on the cut beneath her hairline.

"Right, come on," Finian said with a sigh, nudging his sister towards the exit. "We don't want to be late for this meeting. Wynne is sorting out the horses."

As they headed towards the exit, Zevran fell into step beside Flora; bringing his lips close to her ear.

"Anora is safe from my blade, _querida. _But I warn you that her hours are numbered from the moment that Alistair sets eyes on that cut."

Flora exhaled, hunching her shoulders ill-temperedly.

"I know. I'll have to try and talk him out of it."

_After all, during the Blight, Lady Anora was just listening to her dad. Would I have done any different?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: OOOook I love Anora so much as a character, and I have big plans in store for her with this whole restoration of Gwaren! There's not much canon about what happens to Anora after Origins if she's deposed from the throne – so I've just come up with this head-canon that she's in self-imposed, Miss Havisham style isolation, all bitter and resentful. But that's not going to be permanent! She's a very intelligent and capable woman who deserves more than to be stuck in a room, burning all her old queenly gowns, haha.


	68. The Queen's Business

It was a bright and sunny day, which compensated somewhat for the fact that the coronation holiday was over and the residents of Denerim had to return to work. Still, the city folk were reluctant to take down the last vestiges of decoration, and so crimson ribbons and long strands of laurel were still draped over balconies and wound around lamp-posts. The city was settling back into its normal rhythms – the market was full of traders loudly advertising their wares while a procession of Chantry sisters made their way through the square with swinging incense censors. The canals were busy with mercantile boats and assorted shipping; an occasional noble barge negotiating gingerly through the trade vessels.

The queen's party made its way through the city with far less fuss than yesterday's wedding procession. Flora was perched on the front of Finian's saddle, with Zevran and Wynne riding abreast on either side. A dozen guardsmen accompanied them, their closed-face helmets and gleaming pikes marking them as members of the elite squadron whose job it was to protect the Royal family. In addition, several war-dogs from the palace kennels were chasing each other around the horses' hooves, their short, tawny fur marked with crimson _kaddis_. A Cousland retainer had been visiting the hounds for the past six weeks; inundating them with random items from Flora's wardrobe to train them in her scent. Saela- Fergus' own hound – was close to delivering her own pups; until they had been birthed and trained, the palace dogs would suffice.

Still, despite the city returning to some semblance of normality, its people were still delighted to see their young, plump-bellied queen out in public. Hails rang down from windows and buildings quickly emptied as their occupants flooded out onto the street; waving at the royal party as they rode past. Finian – who always enjoyed the attention – lifted a hand to wave back. Flora was grateful that she had a reputation for solemnity in public, since smiling continuously sounded _exhausting. _Instead, she bowed her head to acknowledge their cries; the gilded wreath of _Andraste's Garland _gleaming against her loose hair.

Once they arrived at the Gnawed Noble, the horses were taken away to be stabled. Six soldiers remained outside the tavern to guard the entrance, while the other half-dozen accompanied the Cousland siblings, Zevran and Wynne inside. The bowing tavern keeper directed them upstairs, explaining that the Gwaren restoration committee was meeting in the room at the far end of the corridor.

Sure enough, the residents of Gwaren were gathered around several tables in a large, airy chamber; tankards of cheap ale, sheaves of paper and ink-pens spread out before them. As Flora entered, there was a minor commotion as the room rose hastily to their feet, chairs scraping back and caps hastily doffed.

"Your majesty," the mayor of Gwaren breathed, directing his words to the floor as he bowed. "My lord Cousland. It's our honour to receive you."

Flora beamed at them; her smile widening when she saw that several cushions had been already added to her chair. The mayor of Gwaren's wife was seven months heavy with babe, and the man understood well the aches and pains that accompanied such a condition.

"Thank you," she replied, earnestly. "Would someone be able to make a copy of the discussions so I can pass it on to Alis- to the king?"

Finian spoke first, setting out the details of the offer that Fergus had come up with. Highever would provide Gwaren with whatever lumber was required for the rebuilding – including transportation and other associated materials. To recoup its costs, Highever would receive a preferential discount in future trade with its southern counterpart. As the newly invested Arl of Amaranthine, Finian also offered the loan of six trading vessels from his own port; at a cost which again would be recompensed through future trade.

These were extremely generous terms – especially since it could take years to regain any return on their investment – but both Cousland brothers were determined to support their younger sister's interest. The mayor barely needed to discuss the offer with his peers before accepting; disbelief and gratitude writ raw on his face.

As the new arl of Amaranthine spoke, Zevran leaned against the door frame and toyed with the handle of his blade; thoughts meandering between Claudio Valisti, Anora Mac Tir and a handful of other faces. Unlike Wynne, who had gratefully accepted a seat beside Finian, the elf preferred to remain standing. He had already scanned the bodies of those seated within the room to check that they carried no weapons – unlikely a possibility as that was – and his head tilted at every slight sound from the corridor outside. After confirming that the most recent footsteps belonged to a servant arriving to remove empty tankards, Zevran's gaze fell on Flora's face. She was listening earnestly, elbows on the table and mouth slightly open; looking as she once must have done in the classrooms of the Circle.

Once Finian had finished, it was the queen's turn to speak. Taking a deep breath – she had practised the particulars several times out loud in the bath that morning - Flora set out in meticulous detail how the king was intending to provision Gwaren.

"One thousand-weight of basalt stone," she began, without ceremony. "Fifty cart-loads of iron ore and slate. Grain and smoked meat sufficient to last five hundred people through the winter. Three hundred heads of assorted livestock. Five cart-loads of masonry tools. Thirty sacks of seeds. And you can keep all the carts and horses used to transport it down south."

The mayor was nodding like a puppet; several secretaries scribbling frantically away at their notes.

"And the repayment terms?"

"None, specifically. But Gwaren should aim to resume the fishing trade within three years," replied Flora, steadily. "And to re-open the port within five."

"Your majesty!" The mayor leapt to his feet and dropped into a bow once again, his face alight with relief and gratitude. "I hadn't thought – hadn't dared to _hope – such generosity - "_

He trailed off, wringing his cap in his hands.

Since Flora was leaving on royal progress with Alistair in the next few days, the mayor promised to stay in regular contact with her via letter. As they made to take their leave, the mayor led the committee in a round of cheers for their noble benefactors; who had stepped in to assist when no patron of their own teyrnir had come forward. Finian lifted a hand and gave a rakish grin, the eye-patch lending him a distinctly piratical air. Flora, who always grew self-conscious at praise, grimaced at her painful knee and wondered if she could persuade Finian to carry her back down the stairs.

"It's my honour to assist you," she said softly once the applause had finished; surreptitiously standing on one leg behind the table. "And you should raise a drink to yourselves, to celebrate your survivors' fortitude. In Herring, we call it having _grit in your soul – _you probably have a different term down south – but I admire it, very much. And I look forward to the day when we can lift a drink together in Gwaren."

_Make mine an apple-water, though. I never realised how bitter ale was until I wasn't able to distil it on my tongue any longer._

They left the tavern with the excited chatter of the restoration committee ringing in their ears. There was a brief delay as the soldiers went to fetch the horses; the others huddled beneath the entranceway for shelter from a light drizzle.

Puddles began to form across the flagstones as the rain worsened, and Zevran muttered a dark comment about _summer in Ferelden! _under his breath. Finian was hissing like a cat and trying to fit himself into the three inches worth of cover provided by the overhanging lip of the tavern roof.

Flora, a true northerner who barely noticed the rain, let the tip of her booted toe dip into a puddle and yawned. She felt a hand on her arm and smiled up at Wynne, who managed to look effortlessly elegant despite the rain.

"I assume you aren't going to be a queen who puts her feet up all day, then," the senior enchanter commented with a smile, her lovely, pale blue eyes shining through the rain. "It's gratifying to see. "

Flora smiled back at her in slight confusion, having not heard of that particular idiom.

"Put my feet up _where?_ On what?"

"It means to relax all day, eating bonbons and embroidering cushions. You'd be more than justified to do so, Florence. You've already done the nation a great service – you're entitled to some leisure time."

The Herring native's lip curled at such idleness, her brow furrowing. Wynne laughed at Flora's facial expression, shaking a wry head.

"I know it's not in your nature. Just – make sure you take the time to _rest. _The babe is big and clearly demands a lot of your energy."

As though on cue, the baby woke up and sent a foot swinging into Flora's kidney. She dropped a hand to her abdomen, tapping her fingers absentmindedly across the curve of her stomach. A few moments later, the baby nudged against her belly in response; and she gave it a little reassuring pat.

Wynne smiled to watch them, the lines at the corners of her eyes deepening with a slight wistfulness.

"It's nice to see you do that, child."

"Eh?"

"During the Blight, you barely looked at your own stomach, let alone _caressed_ it. I know circumstances didn't allow for you to acknowledge the baby in public, but – it's good to see you doing so now."

Flora nodded; she had determinedly put her burgeoning stomach out of her head in the months leading up to the final battle. A metallic taste of guilt rose in the back of her throat and she dropped a second hand to cradle the swell of her belly.

_Sorry, little creature. I was protecting the country that you'll inherit one day. I hope you don't blame me for it in the future._

"In Herring, women work right up until they give birth," she said instead, determinedly swallowing the guilt and moving a piece of damp piece of hair from her face. "When I was little, I knew a woman named Knotty- "

"_Knotty?"_

"Yes, Knotty – and she was out gathering up lobster-pots when she went into labour. She gave birth on the sand on her own, cut the baby loose with her descaling knife, then put it inside her shirt and carried on collecting the lobsters. She's a Herring _legend! _My role model!"

As the Royal Guard came to a halt before them with horses in tow, Wynne's eyebrows shot into her silvery hairline.

"Well, I think Alistair might have something to say about that," she replied, with a slight laugh. "At least he's not foolish enough to suggest putting you in confinement, though I'm sure Eamon has proposed the idea."

"Aah! No! Never!"

They mounted up and began the slow ride back to the palace. The drizzle had driven most of Denerim's city folk inside, and the streets were far quieter than they had been on the journey down from the castle. Flora leaned back against Finian's chest, his cloak wrapped around her shoulders – at his insistence – and curled a strand of damp red hair around her finger.

Rain speckled the surface of the main canal as they rode alongside it, merchants and craftsmen clearing hastily out of the road as they saw the intimidating faces of the Royal Guard. At Alistair's insistence, the party were taking a slightly different route back up to the palace – he did not want them riding through the noble district, where both the _grand-duc _and the Tevinter magister were staying.

Flora was pleased at this alternate route since it took them down beside the estuary; where the tall ships were moored and the fishing wharfs stuck out into the milky green water. A cluster of little boats fought valiantly against the waning tide, bobbing over the gentle lap of waves towards the jetties.

Soon after the party turned to the west, away from the estuary; passing two large and decrepit warehouses on either side. They were clearly both out of use, their roofs collapsing and the glass in their windows broken. The rain was growing steadily heavier, fat drops saturating the horses' manes and bouncing off the cobbles as they plodded determinedly onwards. The Mabari hounds gleefully shook off much of the dampness, much to the annoyance of the splattered guardsmen.

From the front of the party Zevran let out a sudden squeal of distaste; putting his slender, tattooed fingers to his face.

"_Egh! The smell!"_

Sure enough, a distinct odour of foulness came wafting through the air towards them; a miasma of sewage, animal by-product and rotten food. Finian immediately pulled his cloak up over his sister's mouth and nose, his own eyes streaming.

"Ugh! Don't breathe it in, Floss; it'll make you ill. I forgot the main waste channel runs through here."

Flora's eyes swivelled to the side, curious. She could see the channel in question, running nearby at the base of the abandoned warehouses. The brownish waters mingled with another channel, which diverted into a section of the city surrounded by a high wall. With a start, Flora identified the district as the Denerim alienage – she had not initially recognised it from this unfamiliar angle. Her brow furrowed, she turned sideways on the saddle to stare.

"Finian?"

"All my curls have fallen flat in this _deluge! _I bet it's sunny in Val Royeaux."

"_Finian!"_

"What is it, petal?"

Flora pointed, her finger tracing the line of the channel.

"The waste channel runs through the _alienage?"_

"No, of course not. It runs off at an angle, there. See?"

Flora narrowed her eyes, clutching the horse's mane for stability as she swivelled to take in the full view. Zevran, who had been listening, drew his horse up alongside them and extended an illustrative finger.

"There's the main water supply for the alienage, _carina_."

Flora followed the line of his arm, spotting a narrow canal running through an iron grating embedded low in the wall of the alienage. Her brow furrowed, and she lifted her own finger to point once more.

"But it _mixes _with the waste water, just up there. Look, look at the current."

Finian squinted through the rain, his brow furrowing.

"Oh – right. I never noticed that."

Her brother, who had never stepped foot inside an alienage in his life, gave a little perplexed shrug and sat back in the saddle.

Flora, on the other hand, remembered well the conditions within the sad territory of the city elves. In the weeks running up to the final battle, she had sat for hours within the alienage offering healing without charge to its unfortunate residents. She recalled the misery and squalor, the dirt and the disease; the fetid canals of tainted water running miserably alongside their _vhenadahl _prayer-tree.

Quietly, Flora filed away the waste-water channel as something to be dealt with tomorrow; a steely resolution settling over her face.

_As a healer, I could only deal with the effects of this situation. That would be the limit of my power._

_But as a queen, I can do something about the_ cause_ of it._

Out of the corner of her eye, Flora caught sight of Zevran watching her, closely. She smiled at him, and he blew her a kiss that was only slightly wistful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: OK, this chapter might not be the most exciting chapter in the world (I'm saving all the combat, fighty stuff for the upcoming progress), but it's important for Flora's character development. Flo's been on a bit of a self-discovery journey – i.e. what is she going to do, now that she can't heal – and this is an important part of it. She's got her Gwaren restoration project to help the refugees – and now, she's thinking about ways to help the city elves in the alienage. Zevran, who is sensitive to the plight of those less fortunate, has picked up on this too!
> 
> Ooh as a quick note, "confinement" is the effective imprisonment of pregnant noblewomen in Medieval times – at about eight months pregnant, they'd be shut up in their bedroom, with shutters over the windows, the fire piled with wood to make the room sweltering hot… it was meant to be beneficial, lol. This was at a time when 'educated' society believed men to be the ultimate medical authority, since only they could go to university and train to be physicians. And naturally it was the physician's idea to confine the woman, haha. In poorer societies (like Herring), this would be unheard of – especially since most peasant cottages had literally one room for the whole family (plus animals).
> 
> In my story, nobody has bothered even suggesting confinement to Flora, lol. They already know what her answer would be!


	69. Sore Knees And Unwelcome Discoveries

An hour later, they arrived back at the Royal Palace, horses and riders both thoroughly bedraggled. As per usual, the Fereldan summer day had turned into a deluge. Stable-boys, squawking quietly at the rain, ran out to take the horses; in silent competition as to who would take the Cousland horse.

Finian slithered onto the gravel with a crunch, and then reached up lanky arms to help his sister down.

"I'm about ready for a hot bath," he declared, brushing a wet palm over the top of his flattened curls. "A hot bath, and an Antivan brandy. Anybody fancy joining me for the latter?"

Wynne, who had been going to spend the rest of the afternoon responding to correspondence, decided that Irving's letter could wait a little longer. She accepted the invitation with a gracious nod, smiling at the tallest Cousland as he grinned. Zevran also accepted Finian's invitation with a smile; never passing up an invitation to partake in his home nation's native drink.

"_Mi sirenita, _are you coming?"

Flora shook her head, squeezing the rain from the bottom of her tunic.

"I'm going to the trade meeting with the Marcher lords," she replied as they entered the palace, reaching out reflexively to touch the Mabari statue's paw. "I'm surprised you have any Antivan brandy left, I thought Alistair drunk it all on our wedding night."

Finian giggled, shooting her a wicked look from his sole remaining eye.

"Well, it didn't stop him from consummating the marriage, did it?"

"It _nearly _did! He fell asleep twice!"

Flora shook droplets of water from her boots, watching her brother and companions head off towards the Cousland quarters. Her knee was throbbing and she realised that the strapping around the weak joint had come loose. Unfortunately, it was now impossible for her to tighten it herself due to the bulge at her midriff – which seemed to have grown several inches overnight.

Sighing inwardly, Flora resigned herself to the fact that she would now be limping around until she could find someone to tighten it. She made her way laboriously across the entrance hall and beneath the vast archway that led to the eastern wing of the palace, where the great meeting chambers were located.

By the time that she had reached the doorway leading to the largest meeting hall, beads of sweat had broken out on her forehead; mingling with the rain. This was a result of the effort it took to drag along her uncooperative limb, which was protesting both at the day's excessive exertions, and the added weight of her stomach.

Not wanting to limp into the room, Flora begged the assistance of one of the guards standing at the door; rolling up the leg of her breeches and using her most beseeching expression. The guard handed his pike to his partner and knelt, neutral-faced and professional, retying the strap until it was snug around her swollen joint.

Flora tested the strength of her leg – much improved – then reached up to straighten _Andraste's Garland _atop her rain-soaked hair.

"Alright," she said to the guards, who were waiting to let her into the room. "I'm ready."

Within the audience chamber, the meeting had just entered its fourth hour. The participants had just had a short recess to confer with secretaries and take some refreshment; now, as the sun gradually slid towards the horizon, talks resumed in earnest. Alistair sat at the head of the table, leaning forward and listening keenly, with Eamon seated at his left. The members of the king's council – the throne's half-dozen closest advisers – were clustered nearby, sheaves of paper and maps strewn haphazardly before them.

The three Marcher lords , Dumar, Trevelyan and Vael, were seated opposite, clad in their respective colours. Each liege lord was determined to gain a favourable trade settlement for their own city – Ferelden was the main source of wool and iron ore in the south – and likewise was not afraid to out-bid his neighbour to secure the most beneficial deal.

The doors opened, and the steward let his voice ring out across the stone-pillared chamber as he announced the new arrival.

"_Her Majesty, Queen Florence."_

Those present within the chamber immediately rose to their feet with a great scraping of chairs; heads swivelling towards the entrance. Alistair grinned reflexively – he had not been able to fully focus on the trade negotiations with his young, fat-bellied wife down in the depths of the city – and pushed his chair back, striding around the table towards her.

The Queen of Ferelden was no longer dressed in the fur-trimmed leather garb of an Alamarri warrior-princess; but her presence was not diminished for her more prosaic attire. Her hair was damp and loose, hanging in tousled, dark red tendrils down to her waist. Her solemn, grey eyes - placed wide in their grave and lovely setting - swept across the room until they settled on the face of the tallest man in the room.

As Alistair came to a halt before her, Flora smiled shyly up at him; he took her hand and kissed her fingers, entwining them within his own.

"Come and sit with me, my love," he instructed, bowing to add a surreptitious whisper in her ear as he led her behind the chairs. _"Can you pinch me if I fall asleep? _We've been discussing sheep for four hours."

Flora didn't laugh; she was genuinely worried that she might fall asleep herself.

Fergus, who was seated beside Eamon, flashed his sister a smile and she returned it, successfully stifling a yawn.

Once Flora had taken the empty seat to Alistair's right, the king perked up, tapping the end of his ink-pen on the table. He was not the only one infused with new energy at the presence of the queen. Viscount Dumar sat up a fraction straighter; Bann Trevelyan sucked in an inch of his gut; and even the happily married Prince Vael reached up to straighten his necklace of Chantry amulets.

"So, gentlemen," the sharp-eyed Eamon spoke up, having also noticed this sudden flurry of activity from the Marcher delegations. "Whose port will serve as the main entry-point for Fereldan goods into the Marches?"

The Bann Trevelyan, without batting an eyelid, doubled his previous offer. This nearly made Prince Vael fall off his seat, but the leader of Starkhaven immediately matched Trevelyan's offer, with the additional lure of low import taxes.

Flora gazed at them both, having absolutely _no idea_ what either man was talking about. She was brooding on the waste channel running into the alienage's main water supply; immediately making the connection between the tainted water and the prevalence of disease within the crumbling walls of the city elves' home.

Absentmindedly_, _she let her gold-flecked gaze sweep over the balding Viscount Dumar. The leader of Kirkwall swallowed – he was sure to get into trouble with the Chantry for over-committing the city's finances – but gamely put an equally generous offer forward.

Ultimately, it was Bann Trevelyan who emerged the winner. Secretaries duly wrote up the contracts and brought them forward for him to ratify with his seal. With a triumphant smile, the bann stamped down his insignia and leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

"Ostwick will be delighted to strengthen our trade links with Ferelden," he said, smugly. "I look forward to a long and mutually fruitful relationship between our families."

Alistair let out a low exhalation of relief, delighted that the meeting was finally over. Once the Marcher lords had gathered their retainers and taken their leave, he wrapped an arm around a yawning Flora's shoulders and kissed her on the cheek.

"Thank you for coming," Eamon said to Flora, smiling at her as he rose to his feet. "As I suspected, it _did _make a difference in the negotiations, having a _hero of the realm_ present."

Teagan laughed, shooting a wry look down at his elder brother.

"And it helps that the _hero of the realm _is also a comely lass," he added, stretching limbs stiff from sitting in the same chair for hours. "The meeting might have been over in an hour if you'd been there from the beginning, Flora."

Flora shot Teagan a slightly anxious glance – unsure whether he was reprimanding her - and the bann let out a reassuring chuckle.

"I'm only jesting, poppet. You'll have to let us know how your Gwaren committee went over dinner."

* * *

Dinner was served in the great hall, which had been almost entirely returned to normal after the previous day's festivities. The only vestiges of the wedding celebration were the strands of laurel draped from hanging candelabras, too high to be retrieved easily.

Rather than use the top table, with its one-sided chair placement and grandiose thrones; they sat gathered around one of the lower tables. As well as the members of the king's council, Leliana had emerged from the Chantry to join them. She had spent much of the day kneeling in prayer, giving thanks to the Maker for yesterday's success.

Flora, sitting at Alistair's right, was struggling not to fall asleep. She had barely said two words throughout the first course of vegetable stew; content to listen to the lively conversation between Fergus and Teagan. They were engaged in friendly banter on which horses were the most reliable in battle – the teyrn had just jovially accused the bann of a lack of patriotism for his preference of Marcher steeds.

Beside her, Alistair was forking up mouthfuls of stew and occasionally contributing to the discussion – he had worked in a stable and had good knowledge of horses. One of his hands rested on Flora's thigh beneath the table, his thumb running back and forth absentmindedly across the calfskin breeches.

As the second course – roasted beef with broad beans – was delivered by taciturn servants, Eamon filled in Leliana on the outcome of the meeting with the Marcher lords. With each day that passed, he grew more impressed with the bard's astute understanding of political machinations – the arl was certain that she had a great career in some capacity ahead of her; and he was determined that this talent should be reserved to benefit _Ferelden _as opposed to Orlais.

"Flo, look at that!"

Flora blinked – she had been about to fall asleep in her bowl of half-eaten vegetable stew – and focused on Alistair's pointed finger. Instead of a plate of roasted beef, she had been presented with a dish full of cut-up raw turnip, potato and cauliflower. Each piece was carved into the shape of a flower – the distinctive, elongated petals of _Andraste's Grace_.

"How charming!" cooed Leliana from further down the table, her pale blue eyes shining in delight. "What a creative idea. In _Val Royeaux, _our pastry-chefs often carve animals and flowers from fruit. I once knew a duchess who presented an entire _menagerie _of creatures at her spring banquet."

Flora knew that the carved flowers were a silent thank-you from the kitchen staff, for the morning's gift of the wedding dress; but was too sleepy to explain such to the others. Instead, she ate each flower one at a time, listening to Leliana tell increasingly outrageous stories from the same duchess' banquet.

"And _then _the bard took off his mask and revealed himself to be _her husband! _Such a _scandal, _it's still being talked about to this day."

By the time that the final course was being brought out, the mead-flagon was making its fourth trip around the table. Alistair – slightly self-conscious after over-indulging on the wedding night – refrained from partaking in the sweet, honeyed liquor. Leonas also waved the flagon past; the army were practising formations on the Alamarri plains early the next morning and he desired an unclouded head.

When a dozing Flora nearly fell off her chair; Alistair reached sideways and lifted her bodily onto his knee.

"Come here, sweetheart."

The king wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her head against his shoulder, simultaneously forking a fruit-pastry into his mouth. Flora, who was exhausted, fell asleep within moments, her fingers anchoring themselves in the soft leather of his tunic.

"Eamon, have the details of the progress been finalised yet?" Alistair asked, brushing several crumbs of pastry from Flora's hair.

"Aye, son," the arl replied, having just finished planning the route with Teagan that morning. "It's a circular route; should take about seven weeks in total. You'll travel south on the West Road past South Reach, down as far as Lothering to check on the rebuilding efforts there. Then it'll be west across to Lake Calenhad."

"We'll be following the River Dane," interjected Teagan, taking a long swig of ale. "North to the Circle and West Hill. Then east along the northern coast – via Herring – and Highever. There'll be a stop in Amaranthine too, before returning to Denerim."

It was a testament to the depth of Flora's slumber that not even the mention of her beloved hometown could provoke a reaction. Alistair pressed his lips to her cheek affectionately, brushing the hair away from her ear.

"Seven weeks," he repeated, attempting the calculations in his head. "How many months will that be for Flo?"

"Just over eight months," Leliana replied, having already worked it out. "But the roads are well maintained – those damaged during the Blight have been repaired over the past few weeks – and your pace will be slow."

"I could always have her in Highever with me while you're travelling," Fergus offered, already knowing what the answer would be.

Alistair gave a quick, flat shake of the head; his jaw stiffening as his arm tightened around his snoring wife's waist.

"I won't be parted from her, especially not with another Howe on the loose. If we need to cut the progress short, we'll just pick it up again after she has the baby. Who's coming?"

"Myself," Teagan said with a wry smile, inclining his head. "The senior enchanter, Wynne. Your elven companion, Zevran. A couple of banns. And a detachment of soldiers."

Alistair nodded, his brow furrowed in thought.

"Well, that all sounds fine. I'm going to take Flo upstairs now, she's knackered."

Flora woke up as she was being carried en route to the Royal bedchamber; suspended in Alistair's arms with her head resting against his shoulder. They were nearing the Calenhad stained glass window, and the sound of the king's footsteps echoed loud on the flagstones. The carpets and rugs had been taken up for their annual repairing; fresh rushes were strewn in their place.

Her best friend was humming a familiar tune under his breath. Flora listened for a few moments and then nudged her face into his shoulder.

"Ah, I know that," she mumbled, rubbing her fingers into her eyes. "That's _Bones in the Sand!"_

Alistair grinned and gave a nod of confirmation, shifting her up higher against his chest.

"It's actually quite a nice little tune," he admitted, cheerfully. "Almost as catchy as _Two Ten Tonne Kegs."_

"You never said that after the many times I've sung it on our travels!" Flora retorted, slightly indignant.

Alistair laughed, not willing to explain to Flora that _her _tuneless, ear-bleeding rendition sounded nothing like the authentic song. Ducking, he nuzzled his face against her hairline to kiss her forehead; then stopped abruptly in the centre of the hallway. The humour crashed out of his face, to be replaced with a quiet, alert focus.

Without a word, Alistair lowered her carefully to the flagstones. Flora peered up at him in confusion, tilting her head as he reached out to brush the hair away from her face.

_Oh, I forgot to tell him!_

_Oh, dear._

Alistair's gaze fell on the scab to the right of Flora's temple, a half-inch long cut surrounded by a soft, purple bruise. It had been hidden by her hair during both the meeting and the dinner; but now was uncovered in all its dubious glory. The king inhaled unsteadily, his brow creasing into deep lines of dismay.

"My love," he murmured, the concern raw in his words. "What _happened?"_

Flora grimaced, shifting her body onto her strong leg while weighing up her options; aware that Anora Mac Tir's future depended on how she phrased her next few sentences.

"I went to see Anora," she started carefully, then flinched as Alistair drew in a sharp, shocked breath.

"_Anora? _Anora did this?

"No! Well, _yes, _but – she threw something and my head – _got in the way- "_

"_Anora Mac Tir?"_

"Yes, but it was an accident!"

Alistair exhaled for several long moments, a myriad of emotions passing over his face. Finally, a cold and uncharacteristic anger settled on his handsome features; the usual warmth and humour entirely absent from the hazel eyes.

"_Right."_

He turned abruptly on his heel and began to stride down the corridor the way that they had come; in the direction of the newest wing of the palace, and the Mac Tir quarters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Uh oh, lol! It's interesting that Flora doesn't even attempt to make up a convenient lie with regard to the origin of her cut – to do so would be more compassionate towards Anora, but she's made an internal promise to herself never to lie to Alistair again (after lying by omission about the baby during the Blight).
> 
> You're right Eamon, Leliana definitely has a high powered career ahead of her, as scary spy master (mistress?) of the Inquisition!
> 
> Ooh, the mention of Bones in the Sand reminded me of a PM; I totally forgot to mention it here! The person actually made a connection that I was wondering if anyone had spotted! Flora's voice has three qualities that I refer to a lot – she has the accent of a northerner, she sounds like a peasant – and it also has a slightly hoarse, husky timbre. The person who PMed me actually put two and two together – that Flora's throat has been damaged from the constant exhaling of magic (much like her hands used to get damaged when she healed too much). Or maybe I did explain that in an OOC note from the original story, lol. I can't remember!


	70. Lame Horse

Flora really needs to understand what her physical limitations are, haha. In this single day, she's been down to the Landsmeet chamber for Oghren's Joining, over to her new garden, back up to the Royal bedchamber to fetch the dress, down to the palace kitchens, all the way into Denerim for the Gwaren meeting, back up to the palace, into the trade meeting, then across to the great hall for dinner… lol it's a lot! No wonder she fucked up her knee!

Incidentally, she couldn't heal her weak knee in The Lion and the Light because she actually mended it incorrectly during the post-Ostagar bewilderment; the only time she's messed up her healing. She literally grew the bone back incorrectly! I did think about having her fix it during the original story – all it would take is for the kneecap to be broken again (ouch) and then she could heal it properly. But I actually like her having this physical limitation, I can't quite put my finger on why! I like having limitations on characters, I suppose.

  
  


Flora pulled at her own face in horror for a few moments, then took a deep breath and started to make her way after her angry husband. Her knee was shrieking in angry protest; she could feel the strapping unravel with every step that she took along the long corridor.

_This is your fault, Flora! You should have realised that going to see Anora was a bad idea._

_No, it's not my fault. I was trying to be kind._

_Would he execute her just for throwing something in my general direction? Surely not!_

Eventually, out of breath and exhausted, Flora made it back down into the gloomy entrance hall. The hearths were only half-lit to save fuel; the majority of the palace had now settled down for the night.

_I don't think he would execute her, but… he can be irrational when it comes to me._

Gritting her teeth, she looked from left to right, trying to recall the way to the newest wing of the castle, where the Mac Tir quarters were located. Although Flora had been there that very morning, the palace looked different at night; unfamiliar and shrouded in shadow. Suits of armour threw strange shapes across the flagstones, and archways led into expanses of darkness instead of recognisable passageways.

After an accidental ten-minute detour into the castle armoury, Flora managed to get herself back on track. She limped down yet another stone passageway, no longer caring who saw her physical shortcomings. Her head swivelled from side to side as she searched in vain for the statue of King Vanedrin Therin that marked the entrance to the new wing.

Her knee trembled suddenly beneath her and she stumbled, one hand shooting out to clutch at the dusty wall. Feeling her heartbeat surge forward in a panicky rush, Flora took a deep breath and forced herself to pause for a moment; leaning back against a stone archway and exhaling.

Just then, she heard raised and familiar voices beyond the bend in the corridor.

"Alistair, calm down!"

"Uncle, she _threw something- "_

"Then let's sit and you can explain what happened to me."

"That Mac Tir harpy threw something at my wife! My _child-bearing _wife. I'm going to- "

Flora took a deep breath and lifted her chin, bullying her protesting limb into compliance.

When she rounded the corner, a flushed Alistair was pacing the narrow span of the corridor, gesticulating angrily towards a grimacing Teagan. The bann of Rainesfere had his hands out in entreaty, and was clearly attempting to calm down the furious king.

"Flora," Teagan said in relief on seeing her. "What in the void _happened _earlier_?"_

"Eehh- ow."

As Flora came to a halt with a wince of pain, the younger Guerrin stepped forward and reached out to move her hair aside, eyeing the swollen bruise on her forehead.

"What is Anora _thinking?" _he murmured, almost to himself. "The self-controlled woman I once knew would never have struck out in anger, especially not at a defenceless girl."

"She's clearly _deranged,"_ Alistair retorted, edgy as an untamed colt. "She can't handle the fact that she's no longer in power."

Teagan sighed, chucking Flora gently under the chin before withdrawing his hand.

"It's a sad situation all round. Before she let her father take control, she'd done a decent job of governing the country in Cailan's stead. I had no idea she had such a capacity for bitterness."

Alistair's anger flared red and hot once again, and he turned on his heel towards the Mac Tir corridor.

"Anora needs to know that she's not above the law," he snarled over his shoulder as he strode off. "If a peasant on the street threw anything at Flora, he'd be in the stocks for a week – _at least_. Why should a former queen have clemency?"

Flora, horrified at how her well-intentioned idea of involving Anora in the Gwaren restoration committee had gone awry, took a single step after him. Without warning, her knee buckled beneath her and she crumpled onto the flagstones, landing with a bump on her rear. Teagan, whose quick grab had slowed her descent, immediately crouched down beside her.

"Alistair!" he barked down the corridor, harsher than Flora had ever heard him. _"Attend to your wife!"_

Alistair stopped abruptly a dozen yards away, turning on his heel. Seeing Flora sitting miserably on the tiles, he blanched; his pupils constricting in alarm. He covered the space between them in a handful of strides, dropping to his knees beside her.

"Sweetheart," he breathed, stroking the hair away from her sweaty forehead with trembling fingers. "My love. What's wrong? Is it- is it the baby?"

"No, the baby is fine. But my knee really hurts," she replied miserably, furious with herself for letting such weakness show. "I think I walked on it too much."

Alistair reached down to roll the leg of Flora's breeches over her knee, inhaling sharply at the sight of the reddened, inflamed joint.

"Ah, love," he said, immediately remorseful. "And I made you chase all the way down here after me. Maker's Breath, I'm such an idiot!"

Teagan, who had several decades of experience working with horses, appraised the swollen limb with a practised eye. Although he was no healer, he had treated dozens of lame steeds for similar ailments.

"Right," the bann said, taking charge. "I'm going to fetch a balm from the stables that I think will ease the swelling. Alistair, take her back up to the bedchamber and I'll meet you there. You can deal with Anora tomorrow."

_Once you've calmed down, _Teagan thought to himself, rising to his feet with a grunt.

With all thoughts of Anora temporarily purged from his mind, Alistair carried his wife back along the labyrinthine passageways of the Royal Palace. A sour combination of guilt and worry mingled in the pit of his stomach, until he felt vaguely sick. Flora, who was increasingly blaming herself for her impulsive foray to see the old Queen, was equally quiet. She clutched Alistair's shoulder and felt him brush a kiss against her ear, his grip on her tightening.

Once they were back in the Royal Bedchamber, Alistair lowered Flora gently onto the bed; crossing the flagstones to stoke up the hearth. Summer nights in Ferelden were usually chilly, and the evening had also been preceded by a damp and drizzly day.

Alistair returned to Flora's side as the flames feasted upon the sweet-scented cedar logs, his face still creased with worry. Removing the golden band from his own head and the circlet from her hair, he placed them atop the dresser; pressing yet another kiss to her forehead as he did so.

Flora wiped her nose unceremoniously on her sleeve, patting at the dried tears on her cheeks. As Alistair methodically removed her boots, breeches and tunic; the sight of a bottle of apple-water prompted a memory to surface in her mind.

"Alistair?"

"My love?" he replied immediately, returning from the dresser with her striped pyjamas over his arm.

"Tomorrow, when we go down to the estuary to see off the Marcher lords- "

"_If _you go down, Lo. Depending on the state of that knee."

"It'll be fine," Flora said, shooting a stern glance down at the fiercely inflamed joint. "But, _when_ we're down there, I want to show you something."

She lifted her arms to help him slide the pyjama jacket on over her shoulders, absentmindedly rolling up the sleeves.

"What do you want to show me, baby?" Alistair asked, fastening the buttons on the shirt before pecking her on the nose.

"Remember when we went into the alienage? How awful it was?"

"Mm."

"The waste-water channel from the city runs _right into _the alienage's water supply. It feeds into all their wells!"

Alistair's brow creased; with some difficulty he forced himself to temporarily stop worrying about his wife and focus on this new issue.

"Well, that doesn't seem right. No wonder the city elves are always getting ill."

"_I know!"_ replied Flora earnestly, distracted from the throbbing of her knee. "It's not fair. But I think there's a way to fix it. In Herring, we have- "

Flora was cut off by the sound of the doors opening, and the guard announcing the Bann of Rainesfere.

Teagan entered a moment later, the door closing behind him as he approached the bed. He was clutching a small bronze tin in his hand, which gave off a pungent odour even with the lid tightly screwed on. Flora gazed at the tin with mild trepidation; unfamiliar with methods of healing that did not involve her own strange, arcane exhalation.

The bann crouched down to inspect her swollen limb, the flesh red and inflamed to such an degree that it distorted the leather strapping.

"Right," he said, briskly. "This strapping needs to be cut away, and it's going to hurt."

"_Whaaa- ?!"_

Flora, who did not cope well with pain, stared at him in wide-eyed horror while Alistair grimaced in sympathy at her side.

"And your husband shouldn't be the one that hurts you," Teagan continued, averting his eyes from her alarm. "Alistair, do you have your shaving blade?"

Alistair nodded silently, rising to his feet to fetch it. Flora shot Teagan a look of wariness from beneath her eyelashes; the bann returned her a rueful smile as he reached out to take the slender blade.

"It's better that you be angry with me than with him. Right, poppet, lie back."

Flora obediently swivelled sideways, letting her bare legs rest across Teagan's thighs as her head settled in Alistair's lap. The king reached down to stroke her cheek with his left hand, his right hand already clenched in hers.

Teagan took a deep breath and summoned a straight-faced stoicism; trying to envision Flora's bare legs as the fetlocks of a limping mare. He lowered the blade and she flinched, yelping like a kicked Mabari.

"Ouch! _Owww."_

"Pet, I haven't even _touched_ you yet. Alistair," the bann added in an undertone. "Can you distract her?"

Alistair nodded, forcing a smile as he gazed down at Flora's pale, unhappy face.

"Hey, Lo, did I ever tell you about the time I got into trouble at the monastery? Well, one of the times."

"At Revanloch?"

"No, at Bournshire, where I grew up."

"Oh!"

"It used to be so _quiet _within the cloisters – the opposite of life in Redcliffe Castle. All you ever heard were whispered prayers, or verses of the Chant. Sometimes, I thought I'd go completely mad if I didn't hear something – _anything – _else."

Flora listened to him, biting her lip as Teagan lowered the blade to her knee; the bann carefully cutting away the strapping from the inflamed flesh. As she was about to look down Alistair caught her chin with a finger and gently tilted it back up, keeping her gaze on him.

"So, Lo, one morning – I must have been about fifteen – I couldn't take it anymore. I ran up and down the main corridor, just _bellowing_ at the top of my lungs."

"What were – _ouch – _what were you shouting?"

"Oh, nothing that made sense – I just needed to hear something that wasn't dedicated to the Maker." Alistair smiled down at Flora, stroking a strand of hair away from her sweaty forehead. "Anyway, it was awful timing – the Grand Chantry Mother was visiting the monastery, along with the local Templar captain. I ran smack bang into them as I turned the corner, still bellowing utter nonsense."

"Ooh," breathed Flora, shifting slightly as Teagan pulled away the last of the leather strapping and dug his fingers into the pungent, unguent cream. "Did you – _ow – _did you get into trouble?"

"Oh, yes," Alistair confirmed, cheerfully. "Had to scrub all the flagstones in the Chantry – front to back – and recite benedictions for twelve hours. How about you, my love? Ever get into trouble at the Circle?"

Flora pulled a little face as the bann carefully applied the cream to the swollen joint.

"Aah – ouch – no, not really. I think my instructors were more _disappointed_ in me for being so useless. I used to get thrown out of class all the time, but it was just because I couldn't do anything. Not because I was naughty. Like _you! _I always followed the rules and did what I was told."

_Apart from sneaking up to the roof, _she thought to herself, and stifled a snort. _Or down to the kitchens after curfew._

Despite everything, Alistair laughed out loud; bowing his head to kiss her on the end of the nose.

"No, you've always been a good girl. Nothing wrong with that, sweetheart. I think rebelliousness is overrated, anyway."

"There we go, all done."

Both Alistair and Flora looked down at her knee with some surprise. The bann had wound a thin linen bandage over the unguent cream, which gave off an unpleasant tar-like scent but had a pleasant cooling sensation. The pain in the joint was quickly overtaken by a gentle numbness, and the swelling seemed reduced mere minutes after the cream's application.

"Oh," breathed Flora in astonishment, staring down at her bandaged knee. "That feels so much better. What _is _it?"

Having once relied on the arcane as the source of her healing, she was fascinated by these more prosaic – but effective - methods of soothing pain.

"Embrium flower, mixed with coal tar," Teagan explained, screwing the lid back onto the pot and placing it to one side. "Got the formula from Ansburg. The stable-master there swore it could make any lame horse sound overnight."

"Well, this lame horse is very grateful," Flora replied earnestly, sitting upright to put an arm around Teagan's neck and press an impulsive kiss to his cheek. "Thank you."

"Thank you, uncle," repeated Alistair, exhaling in slight relief as he eyed the neatly bandaged joint.

Teagan let out a little grunt of acknowledgement, hoping that the flush hadn't extended above his collar. Patting Flora's good knee in what he hoped was a familial, avuncular manner; he gently moved her legs from his lap and rose to his feet.

"I suggest you both get some rest," he said, slightly gruffly. "Goodnight."

"Night, uncle," Alistair said immediately, as Flora yawned. "Thank you, again."

Once Teagan had left Alistair changed swiftly into his sleep trousers, blowing out all the candles until the room was illuminated solely by the soft, umber glow from the hearth. Padding barefoot across the chamber, he was about to close the shutters; when Flora's voice wended its way through the darkness.

"Can you leave them open? I like seeing the sky."

Alistair did as she requested, returning to the bed and clambering beneath the blankets with a yawn. He held his arm up to allow Flora to curl herself into the crook of his shoulder; the two settling into the position that they had first begun sleeping in long before they had even shared a kiss.

"How's the knee?" he said into her hair, fingers wandering in idle patterns up and down her arm.

"Mm, I can't feel it. Better," Flora replied, yawning and turning her face against the taut muscle of his chest.

Alistair nodded, gratified. The baby shifted inside Flora's stomach and she reached for his wrist, guiding his hand so that he could feel the fidgety movements of their child. He stroked his fingers over the ripe curve for several minutes, feeling the firm line of the baby's back as it changed position. Feeling the pressure of its father's hand, the baby nudged back against his palm and Alistair swallowed; tears suddenly prickling in the corners of his eyes.

_I'll never stop being amazed by this, _he thought wonderingly, and understood Anora's bitterness a little more.

"Sweetheart, promise me that you won't see Anora alone in the future," he said, suddenly. "It doesn't have to be me that accompanies you, but… as long as it's not just _you _on your own_. _I know she's got cause to be upset, but I can't risk your safety."

Flora felt a wave of relief wash over her, some of the worry from earlier dissipating. Now that the initial anger had faded, Alistair sounded far more reasonable; it no longer appeared as though Anora would end up in the stocks or on the block.

"I promise," she said, earnest and immediate.

Alistair nodded, turning his head to gaze towards the window. The sky was framed by the opened shutters, a rich, dark expanse studded with bright, pinpricked stars. A moment later, he realised that a constellation was floating in the atmospheric miasma above the estuary; squinting slightly, he tried to connect the stars into a recognisable form.

"It's _To-oth," _said Flora, the word elongated by a yawn. "Toth. We used to call it the _oyster and pearl, _but I think it's meant to be a man on fire. Or something."

Flora's Herring-father had known each constellation by heart and had taught them to her; she did not remember the more complex ones, but this was a simple one to recall.

"I prefer the _oyster and pearl," _Alistair murmured, kissing the pink shell of her ear. "No burning alive for me, thanks."

Flora smiled, turning her face from the window and pressing it against her former brother-warden, now-husband's sinewy clavicle. Alistair let his mouth linger by her neck; brushing his lips gently over the skin in a slow meander towards her throat.

"I haven't forgotten about returning the favour from earlier," he said, thickly. "As soon as your knee feels better, I'm going to _kneel _before you."

Flora stifled a giggle against his shoulder, feeling a flush erupt on her cheeks.

"Ooh!"

"Well, that sounded a lot more suave in my head than it did out loud," Alistair admitted, cheerfully. "But the intention was there."

"Mm. Night, night, husband."

"Goodnight, sweet wife."


	71. Catching The Tide

The next morning, Flora's swollen knee-joint had reduced in both size and redness; enough to wind a new leather strap around it with only a little discomfort. Alistair, who still felt guilty over yesterday's over-exertions, was determined to keep a closer eye on his wife. Their first commitment of the day was down at the estuary, formally bidding their new Marcher trade partners farewell as the lords took advantage of the early tide.

It was an overcast, yet fiercely humid mid-Solace morning. A thin veil of cloud seemed to keep heat trapped between the heavens and the city, the muted sunlight bestowing a milky cast over the clear, green water of the estuary. The seagulls took advantage of the rising thermals, swooping down to harass fishing boats and street traders with defiant insolence.

The Denerim docks ran the full length of the estuary, their purpose changing the further inland they reached. The fishing wharfs were located upriver, near where the seawater mingled with the fresh; this was where the refugees had once gathered, and where the Pearl was located. The mooring-place of the tall ships was towards the coast, where the mouth of the estuary began to widen into the ocean. Still protected from the turbulence of the open sea, there was more room along this stretch of water to anchor the brigs, barques and brigantines of the nobility; as well as the wide-bellied barges of the merchant ships.

Despite their rivalries, the three Marcher lords had been forced to anchor their vessels alongside one another. Due to their close proximity to Ferelden, they had left their arrival late; and thus had less choice of mooring points. For the first – and possibly_ last_ \- time, the red and black of Starkhaven flew alongside the gold and black of Kirkwall, and the green and silver of Ostwick.

The nobility of the Landsmeet, along with several of Flora's companions, had accompanied the Marcher lords down to the docks to see them off. They were gathered near the harbour-master's office, a two-storey wooden building surrounded by a lawn of dried grass, and several anaemic trees. The king and queen – he clad in Theirin crimson, she in Cousland navy - had just relayed their best wishes for favourable winds.

Although Flora could not read the horizons as fluently as her Herring-dad; nobody growing up in a fishing village was ignorant of the portents of the heavens.

"The sky looks mild enough," she told the Viscount Dumar solemnly, casting an eye upwards. "There's no storm in those clouds. Maybe a bit of rain."

The Viscount shot her a slightly odd look – preoccupied with troubles in his own city, he was not entirely aware of the queen's unconventional upbringing.

"May the Maker watch over your voyage," Eamon interjected smoothly, inclining his head towards bann, Viscount and prince in turn. "And I look forward to our resumed correspondence."

The Marcher lords repeated the sentiment, bowing once more towards king and queen.

"Your majesties!"

"Have a good journey," Alistair added amiably, shielding his eyes against the soft glare of the sun. "Watch out for sea monsters!"

This last comment was added in an undertone as the Marcher men turned to gather their families and retainers, the mass of mingled colours dividing into three separate retinues.

Meanwhile, Zevran had been unsuccessfully flirting with Bann Trevelyan's daughter. Instead of responding to the elf's charm, Beatrix Trevelyan had clutched her Chantry pendants and raised her eyes to the heavens, as though pleading with the Maker to rescue her from such unwanted attentions.

As the three groups began to file towards their separate ships, the elf wandered disconsolately back to the Fereldan contingent; a frown embedded across his rich, tan features.

"I think I'm losing my touch," he complained, directing his petulance towards Leliana, Alistair and Flora. "She was utterly _impervious _to my substantial charm. It is both confusing, and _deeply_ displeasing."

Leliana rolled her eyes, watching the Vael sons file onto the deck of their wide-bellied galleon.

"Alistair, _mon chéri, _do you ever wonder what happened to King Maric?"

Alistair let out a little grunt, scratching the back of his head. The sailors were calling out to one another now, swarming over the rigging like flies; loosing the ties that bundled the great sails to the mast. With a sigh of canvas the sails unfurled, their expanding billow immediately checked by tautened ropes. More sailors were hauling up the anchor, sweating and cursing as they shoved the windlass round.

"Lost in a storm at sea, five…_ six _years ago now? I remember overhearing some Templars talk about it at the monastery."

"Do you think he could still be alive?" the bard asked, delicately mopping a bead of sweat from her forehead with a handkerchief. "Florence has mentioned that the fishing villages occasionally salvaged living souls from shipwrecks. Sometimes they'd wash up with no memory of who they were before the storm took them."

Alistair gave a shrug, watching the sails of the Starkhaven ship catch the wind. With a laborious creak of salt-eroded wood, the barnacle-encrusted keel inched away from the harbour wall and began to pull gently out into the centre of the estuary. A flotilla of small fishing boats bobbed to one side; pausing their own progress to let the larger ship through.

"Well, maybe. But it makes no difference whether he's a- a skeleton at the bottom of the Waking Sea, or… an amnesiac blacksmith in Herring. Either way, he's not coming back."

Flora, who had been watching the tall ships with her mouth open, rotated her head instinctively at the mention of her home.

"Eh?"

Alistair leaned down and kissed the top of her skull, directing his lips within the gilded garland. She smiled up at him, cheeks flushed from the combination of leather breeches and her own unbalanced hormones.

Beside them, Zevran was still bemoaning the failure of his flirtation; a touch melodramatically.

"What _other _tricks do I have up my sleeve, apart from witty banter, killing and love-making?"

"Certainly not lock-picking," muttered Alistair, recalling a certain sealed door in the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

"I cannot afford to lose one of these three," continued the elf, his tattooed fingers skittering compulsively across the hilt of his blade. "They define I, Zevran; as much as Leliana's devotion and daggers define her."

Flora peeled her attention from the diminishing stern of the Trevelyan ship; touching her finger to Zevran's wrist to gain his attention.

"Your _tricks_ number more than three," she breathed, letting her gaze slip sideways to settle on Zevran's face. "And you've not lost any of them."

"That Trevelyan girl has the air of a Chantry sister in the making," added Alistair, helpfully. "I wouldn't feel too bad that your _seduction tactics_ failed."

"I have cajoled Chantry sisters to break their vows of chastity before," Zevran retorted, then relented a fraction. "Ah, but youth can be so stubborn. I prefer my religious women a little more seasoned. After years of a cold and lonely bed, many often desire a little… _diversion."_

He winked at Leliana, who sniffed and turned her nose up at him.

Flora, who detected a note of genuine melancholy behind the elf's glib remarks, twisted her head to look at him properly.

"That Bernard Trevelyan doesn't know what she's missing," she said, kindly. "It's her loss."

Alistair and Leliana convulsed into snickers at such a catastrophic warping of Beatrix Trevelyan's name. Zevran, on the other hand, appreciated the sentiment; flashing Flora a sly wink from the corner of his blackberry-dark eye.

"I long for the day when your husband permits me to show _you _the full range of my skills, _mi sirenita," _he purred, pleased at the rapid pinkening of her cheeks. "The Royal bedchamber will _quake in its foundations, _I promise you."

The three ships drifted further apart as they headed towards the mouth of the estuary, their sails full with a budding offshore breeze. At this distance only the colours tied to their masts distinguished them, the Vael ship rapidly striking out ahead of the other two. The flotilla of fishing boats - their path into the harbour now clear - limped into the estuary, their pace slowed by nets heavy with the morning's catch.

Eamon approached king and queen with Teagan in tow; trailing Redcliffe secretaries and guards like a mother hen with her chicks. The Chancellor had a sheaf of papers in hand, and his eyes were focused on Alistair.

"Alistair, I've some documents for you to read and put your name to. Sister Leliana, I'd appreciate you casting your _Orlesian _eye over this 'thank-you' letter from the _grand duc_."

The harbour-master promptly offered the use of his own quarters for the king to use. Flora was about to follow Alistair inside the lower office, when a hail caught her attention.

"Warden-Commander Cousland! Got yer message."

She startled, turning about her with wide eyes. For a handful of months, this had once been her most common form of address; yet she had not been referred to as such since the Blight had ended. It was also no longer true on _both_ measures – she was no longer a Warden, nor the leader of their Order.

_Who hasn't seen me since the final battle? Only they would use my old title._

The answer quickly became apparent when a stout dwarf with an ambitiously sculpted dark moustache made his way forwards, leaning heavily on a stick. Flora immediately recognised him as Oisín, the gifted engineer who had not only planned the series of ditches and bulwarks that had divided the charge of the Darkspawn across the Alamarri plains, but also designed the reinforcements that kept the Denerim city walls intact against the enemy's siege weaponry.

Oisín gave a hoarse laugh, waving a hand towards her as he limped closer.

"Oh, but I suppose it's _Queen Florence _nowadays. By the Stone! How in the Ancestor's name did you manage to hide _that _belly before the battle?"

Flora was delighted that the talented dwarven engineer was still in the city. She silently thanked the steward Guillaume for not only scribing her message that morning, but then passing it on through the relevant channels.

"A very tight bodice," she replied solemnly, and the dwarf gave a throaty laugh. "I'm glad you're still in Denerim. I wasn't sure if you'd left with the rest of the dwarves."

Oisín shook his head, the ends of his large brown moustache quivering as he gestured to his twisted knee.

"Got hit with an arrow – my fault, was too busy watchin' my trebuchet bolt take down an ogre - so I'm takin' it easy till it recovers. Was getting awful bored just sat on my arse; so I was happy to get your message."

Flora beamed, delighted.

"I want to show you something," she said, earnestly. "It's not far. Will your knee be alright?"

"Oh, aye," replied the sharp-eyed dwarf, noticing that Flora was favouring one leg over the other. "Will _yours?"_

"Mm, it'll be fine. It's just this way- "

"Flo? _Where- "_

Alistair, who had clearly been expecting his best friend to follow him inside the harbour-master's office, appeared at the entrance; his tall, bulky frame filling the doorway.

"I'm going to show the chief engineer something," Flora called across to her husband, watching his nostrils flare in alarm. "Just round the corner. Come and see once you're finished with your letters!"

Alistair ducked his head back within the harbour-master's office, his voice muffled as he spoke to those inside.

The next moment, Zevran and Teagan came out; accompanied by a half-dozen impassive Royal Guards.

"Where are we going, _carina?" _the elf enquired, shooting a curious glance down at the dwarf. "Ooh – are we going to the _Pearl _for a little afternoon delight while Alistair engages in boring paperwork? _Ay mamí!"_

"Yes," replied a deadpan Flora, rolling her eyes at him. 

Turning her back on the estuary, she led the way down the docks, careful not to outpace the limping dwarven engineer. The Royal Guard followed at a discreet distance – far enough not to impose, close enough to intervene at a moment's notice.

The seagulls arced and wheeled overhead, diving down towards where the fishermen were now unloading their catches at the far docks. No more refugees were left in this particular district of Denerim – they had either gathered sufficient coin to escape Ferelden aboard some merchant vessel, or joined one of the dozen restoration committees that had formed in recent weeks. Instead, the docks were slowly coming alive once again – the fishing vessels were supplying the markets with plentiful stock and the Pearl was doing a roaring business.

Flora, however, was not headed towards this bustling end of the docks. Once she had spotted the decrepit warehouses, she turned away from the waterside; heading down the narrow road between the two crumbling buildings. Teagan fell into step alongside her, gesturing down at her knee.

"How's it holding up today, poppet?"

"Oh! Much better. Thank you again for last night."

Flora smiled up at the bann as he grunted; averting his eyes quickly in a manner that he had started to adopt more frequently with her these days.

_He's trying to copy Arl Leonas, _she thought, slightly bemused. _Arl_ _Leonas grunts and doesn't quite look at me in the eye; he ruffles my hair instead, like a dad._

_I wonder why Bann Teagan is trying to do the same?_

Naturally, there was no explanatory response from her spirits – Flora gave an inward sigh – and so she pressed on, leading them further up between the abandoned warehouses. The high wall of the alienage soon rose up before them, the dirt-packed stones crumbling with age.

"Ah, not this _odour _again," Zevran murmured, plugging his nostrils with his fingers in preparation. _"Ech!"_

Moments later, the foul waft of the waste channel drifted towards them; the city's floating detritus carried on a leisurely current towards the fishing wharfs. The dwarven engineer let out a little grunt, rubbing at his streaming eyes. Even the Royal Guard appeared as though they wished they could hold their noses beneath their closed-face helmets.

"Bronto-humper, that's a foul stink!" Oisín complained, lip curling beneath the impressive moustache. Once he realised that they had come to a halt, the dwarf perched himself atop a nearby barrel; puffing slightly.

"Exactly, it's _horrible," _Flora agreed, wide-eyed. "And all the _horrible, _dirty water is leaking into the alienage's water supply. All this _poison water _is coming up in their wells and it's making them sick."

Teagan shot a quick glance sideways at Flora, then down at the alienage wall; eyeing the low iron grating that let in the water. His eyebrows rose as he saw Flora's point – if one bothered _looking, _it was quite obvious to see that the tainted water was leaking into the alienage's only supply.

"When I was a healer, I used to come down to the alienage in the evenings to offer my services. Remember, Bann Teagan? You came, sometimes," Flora breathed impassionedly, and the bann gave a small nod of confirmation. "There were so many people who had upset stomachs. At the time, people told me that it was because the city elves had weaker constitutions. But when the elves came down to the Alamarri plains to prepare for the battle, they stopped getting sick. It must have been the _poison water _in the alienage that made them ill!"

Oisín nodded; his interest piqued. The dwarf fiddled with the end of his oiled black moustache, watching Flora carefully as she shifted from foot to foot.

Seeing the dwarf's walking stick propped beside the barrel upon which he was perched, Flora reached out impulsively to grab it. Using the rounded wooden end, she marked out the basic outline of the district in the dirt; including the alienage wall, the estuary and the existing waste-water channel.

"_This_ is the waste-water channel," she said, jabbing the end of the stick in her improvised map. "At the moment, it goes _here – _mixing with the alienage water supply – and then along here… and comes out _here,_ near the Pearl."

Flora remembered the foul smell that had sometimes blown into the brothel when the wind turned; the madam would tut and hang up sprigs of lavender in the windows.

"So, what're you suggestin', lass? Sorry: _your majesty," _asked the dwarf, his eyes narrowed in thought.

Flora reached up to pull the crimson ribbon from her hair, letting the dark red strands tumble free of the ponytail. With some difficulty - considering the size of her stomach - she squatted inelegantly down and laid the ribbon out in a new course through her makeshift 'district'.

"In Herring, we have a waste-water channel that goes round the back of the blacksmith," she explained, pushing herself inelegantly to her feet. "It runs down the beach, beyond the tide-line."

Rotating on the spot, Flora lifted a finger to point behind her; her gaze passing straight through the abandoned warehouses to focus on the water beyond.

"The estuary is _tidal," _she said, earnestly. "Those Marcher ships just left _on the tide. _If Denerim's waste-water channel is rerouted down there – knocking down those old buildings – then the waste will be carried out by the tide. Rather than building up on the banks of the river further inland. And, that way, it won't mix with the alienage's water supply!"

Flora let out a slightly unsteady breath: she had not given such a monologue since speaking to the troops before the final battle. Turning suddenly anxious eyes on the dwarven engineer, she let her pointed finger drop.

"Do you – do you think it's possible?"

"Of course it's possible," replied Oisín, chuckling derisively at the idea that something could be _beyond _his engineering capability. "It ain't that complicated. Just got to work out where the tide reaches up to, so I know where to bring the new channel out."

Flora almost clapped her hands together in delight; then felt slightly self-conscious, and lowered her nail bitten palms to her thighs.

Zevran reached down to pick up the crimson ribbon, brushing the dirt from its silken length. The elf held it in his hands for a moment, and then smiled wistfully at her.

"Not _just_ a pretty face then, eh?"

After the loss of her magical abilities, Flora had resigned herself to the gloomy fact that she would now be praised solely on the sum of her looks – which she had no control over, and thus took no pride in. At Zevran's comment, her stoic face broke into a delighted beam.

"Well, it's not _my _idea," she said, immediately trying to lessen her own contribution. "They do it in all the northern villages – use the tide to take away waste."

She then glanced over at Teagan, who had been silent throughout the duration of her explanation. To Flora's alarm, the bann was in the process of dragging a weary hand over his face.

When Teagan opened his eyes, Flora was hovering anxiously before him; her pale eyes huge and worried.

"Bann Teagan?" she asked, tentatively. "Don't you think it's a good idea?"

"No, petal- I mean, _yes. _I think it's an excellent idea." The bann hastened to reassure her, one hand half-lifting as though to touch her face. "It'll benefit Denerim twice over – stop the deposition of waste upriver, and reduce disease in the alienage, lessening the chance of city-wide epidemics."

"I'm glad," Flora replied, still a little worried. "You didn't look as though you thought it was excellent idea just then. Your face looked like you were having _issues _digesting your lunch."

"Ah – that wasn't at your idea, Flora. Forgive me… I'm just a foolish man in his middle years."

Unable to stop himself, the bann leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. Flora tilted her head dutifully to receive it, smiling up at the younger Guerrin in slight bemusement.

"Alright," she said, eyes swivelling purposefully back towards Oisín. "I'll show you how we can find out where the tidal water starts."

She handed back the dwarf his stick, and headed back towards the abandoned warehouses; the Royal Guard immediately hurrying in her wake. Teagan looked after her with wistful and unguarded emotion; a rare lapse of control that was duly noted by the sharp-eyed elf.

"In Antiva, we have a saying," Zevran murmured, wryness cut through his tone. _"__'__Cuanto más aguda es la belleza, más profundo es el corte.' _To translate: _the sharper the beauty, the deeper the cut._ It means that the more beautiful a woman is, the more callous her character."

The elf let out a snort, watching Flora point out the abandoned warehouses to the dwaven engineer as they approached them.

"Wouldn't things be so much simpler if she were as cruel as that merciless face would suggest, _hm?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Teagan's definitely trying to go the more familial, avuncular route with Flora, lol. Incidentally, the Spanish bit at the end is purely courtesy of Google translate because I know no one who speaks Spanish, so apologies for anything incorrect and feel free to advise me on any edits I need to make, hehehe. But Zevran does have a point - Flo has a deceptive major resting bitch face, just look at the title image for this story, lol. THOSE COLD EYES!
> 
> So in this post-Blight reconstruction of Ferelden, Flo isn't making grand speeches to armies or politicians anymore – she's proposing new methods of WASTE WATER MANAGEMENT! Lol! Still, it's all part of her quest to fill the gaping void left by the departure of her spirits; by helping the most vulnerable people in the city in whatever capacity she has as queen.
> 
> Incidentally, the tainted water-link to disease thing in this chapter is inspired by 19th century doctor John Snow, who investigated the cholera outbreaks in East London. He proved (though some of the first methodological scientific investigation) that the cholera was caused by dirty water and not by miasma (bad smells), which was the most widely accepted theory of disease at the time. Unfortunately, nobody ended up believing him and he died in relative obscurity! It's actually a really interesting story, hehe.
> 
> Note the dual meaning of the chapter title! I almost called this "Planning The New Waste Water Channel", and then my husband was like yeah do you want to turn off your entire readership? He may have had a point, lol; anyway, I like Catching The Tide a lot better


	72. Swimming And Scholarship

Once Alistair had finally finished reading and signing the last of the documents, he put down the quill and rose immediately to his feet, turning towards the door. The sun was starting to burn through the veil of cloud, patches of dappled light mottling the pale green surface of the estuary. Squinting against the sudden brightness, Alistair swivelled on the spot, looking around in vain for his wife.

"Over there!" Leliana breathed from behind him.

Following the line of the bard's finger, the king noticed a clump of Royal Guard swarming like anxious beetles fifty yards further down the estuary; where the sharp drop of the dock ended and the muddy bank sloped gently down into the water. They did not appear to be swarming in _panic, _but merely in mild _perplexion _– as though not quite sure how to proceed.

As Alistair approached, he saw the familiar black-moustachioed dwarf from earlier, leaning heavily on a stick while scribbling some notes on a notepad. Zevran was perched on a large bollard, giggling to himself while clutching what appeared to be a pair of leather trousers and – incongruously – a _crown_. A pair of familiar boots rested on the ground at his side.

Alistair quickened his pace, striding over the tightly compressed earth towards where the Royal Guard were clumped. On noticing his arrival, they shifted their pikes quickly from hand to hand; their heavily-armoured captain hastening to explain.

"Your Majesty, we were none of us sure what would happen if we… _fell over _in the water. We didn't think we'd be able to get up again."

A thoroughly confused Alistair came to a halt at the top of the estuary bank, where the earth subsided gently downwards and segued into the sandy bottom of the estuary. Zevran waved tattooed fingers towards him in greeting, trying to stifle his giggles.

"This must be the first time that an elf has ever laid his hands on a piece of _royal regalia, _eh? Still, I am more interested in caressing _mi florita's _breeches. Still warm from those luscious thighs! I will dream happily tonight."

Alistair looked downwards into the estuary, his eyebrows rising into his gilded hairline. Flora was standing ten yards out from the shore, the water lapping up around her bare thighs. The ends of her loosened hair were trailing around her, like strands of floating, crimson seaweed. As he watched, Flora lowered her palms to the water and cupped a handful; bringing it to her nose and touching it with her tongue.

"No, still freshwater," she called to the dwarf, who made a quick mark on his notepad. "But it's not far off."

Alistair, gaping, noticed his uncle also standing in the water a short distance away, fully clothed and with his arms crossed. At the guards' reluctance to submerge their plate armour in the estuary, Teagan had reluctantly chosen to accompany Flora into the water as a precaution. Several Rainesfere retainers were huddled on the shore, peering down at their hapless bann with wide eyes and trying not to snicker at his expression.

Flora, who was so absorbed in her task that she had not noticed her best friend standing on the bank, shuffled another few metres eastwards; towards where the estuary opened out into the great maw of the Amaranthine Ocean. This time, when she cupped a handful of water and touched her tongue to it, she beamed and waved at the dwarf.

"Saltwater. This is the tidal flow! Look, here- "

She bent forwards – Leliana moaned under her breath as the sleeve of the delicate lambs' wool tunic was submerged – and retrieved a handful of seaweed from the sandy floor. The clump of marine vegetation had clearly been deposited there by the tide, and Flora inhaled its scent in delight.

"Look, Bann Teagan," she enthused, swivelling in the water and showing him the handful of dark green kelp. "In Herring, we call this _bladder wrack. _You can dry it out and EAT it! It's very delicious _and nutritious_."

Thigh-deep in water, Teagan let out a little grunt and eyed the seaweed suspiciously.

"It doesn't look that appetising to me, poppet. I think I'll stick to beef and potatoes."

The habits of a lifetime were hard to forget; Flora shoved the clump of kelp surreptitiously down the front of her tunic.

_Ooh, my breasts can now be used as a shelf, _she thought, with Herring practicality. _That's good to know. Very useful._

The little creature responsible for her bosom's augmentation yawned and woke up, kicking both feet enthusiastically into it's mother's stomach. Flora peered down at her belly for a moment, and then gave it a little pat of greeting.

"Your first swim, tadpole," she said, out loud. "I hope you're enjoying it."

Looking up, she saw Alistair shifting from foot to foot on the shore. Her best friend was wide-eyed and twitching with alarm.

"Flo, are you… are you almost done?" he called, trying to keep the anxiety from his voice.

Flora nodded and began to wade her way towards the bank, delighting in the feel of sand between her toes.

_I missed this, _she realised, with a little pang. _The salt-water, the press of sand, the smell of seaweed._

As Flora approached the shore, an impatient Alistair came striding out to meet her; splashing through the shallows in his knee-high boots. Putting one arm around his best friend's waist – he did not trust the stability of the muddy sand – he guided her up onto the bank.

"Thanks, uncle," the king murmured in an underside to Teagan, who was bringing up the rear with water streaming from his saturated clothing.

The dripping bann issued a _don't mention it_ grunt, removing one boot and tipping its salty contents out onto the earth.

Alistair guided Flora to sit on an iron mooring bollard, then crouched before her and put his hands on her wet, bare thighs. He gazed into her nonchalant eyes for a moment, and then let out an incongruous laugh.

"You're full of surprises, baby. Did you just fancy a _swim_, or…?"

"_No!"_ Flora replied, indignantly. "I was carrying out an investigation."

"Into what, my love?"

"Into the _salinity _of the water."

"The _what?"_

"Saltiness!"

Flora looked sideways at the dwarf, who promptly rose to his feet and limped over to the king; presenting a clarified version of Flora's initial dirt sketch on his parchment-pad. Alistair returned upright and turned to face the dwarf, listening keenly. Eamon – casting a bemused look at his dripping younger brother – had just arrived at Leliana's side.

"I propose a new waste-water channel be built along _here- " _Oisín pointed a broad finger along the crudely marked roads. "And a holdin' area built where these old warehouses currently stand. The holdin' area will be released twice-daily into a channel that feeds into the tidal wash o' the estuary; carryin' the waste out to sea, where the foul miasmas won't bother you no more."

"It'll stop the waste building up around the jetties and fishing docks further inland," Flora added, earnestly. "And it'll stop the waste from mixing with the alienage water supply and turning it into _poison."_

Alistair looked at his former sister-warden, slightly astounded.

"Maker's Breath, Lo! Did you just come up with that?"

"No," she replied, immediately. "It's what they do in Herring, and Skingle, and _lots _of villages on the north coast. Let the tide take away the waste, rather than letting it build up round the houses."

The king nodded, then asked the dwarf the question that he had learnt was essential for _any _monarch to issue as soon as possible.

"And what would you_ charge_ for completing this work?"

Oisín thought for a moment, fiddling with the end of his moustache.

"I'll do this job on the house," he said at last, shrewdly. "It won't take long._ If_ I can have the long-term contract for strengthenin' the city walls."

"Then half your workforce has to be hired from Denerim," countered Eamon, equally shrewd. "And materials from _our _quarries, not from Orzammar's mines."

"_Done!" _replied the dwarf, and then slapped his broad thigh in triumph. "You've got yourself a deal, King Alistair. I'll draw up some proper plans this afternoon and send 'em up to the palace this evenin'."

Flora felt a surge of triumph in her belly, and suddenly wished that she was still capable of _jumping for joy. _Instead, she wriggled around from her sitting position on the iron bollard and drummed her fingers on Alistair's hip; squirming gleefully on the spot.

_I did something to help. Something that will make the lives of people better._

_Without magic!_

Impulsively, Flora put her arms around Alistair's waist, inordinately grateful for his support. Ferelden's king dropped an affectionate hand to caress the back of his new queen's head, rubbing his thumb over the exposed curve of her ear.

"Alright then, sweetheart. Once you get your, ah, _trousers_ back on, let's get back up to the castle. Eamon's given me the afternoon off, and I can't think of anyone I'd rather spend it with, than with my favourite person in all of Thedas."

"Who's that?" Flora breathed, surreptitiously admiring the thick muscle of Alistair's thigh beneath the leather.

"You,_ obviously."_

"_Meeee!"_

* * *

Eamon was as good as his word, cancelling the meeting of the King's Council for the afternoon. The Chancellor – who would be acting as regent during Alistair's progress – needed to sort out correspondence with Redcliffe before becoming distracted by the wider affairs of the realm. Eamon also had long-term plans to make his younger brother the Arl of Redcliffe, since he personally would need to remain in Denerim to aid the still-inexperienced Alistair. He had not shared these plans with Teagan yet, resolving to share them with the bann once he had returned from the progress.

A grateful Alistair took Flora up to the palace archives, determined to work further with her on her literacy. He was unsure why his year-younger wife had so much trouble with her letters – even after eight months of his tutelage, she still had barely progressed beyond the basics – but he was not going to give up.

Although they could have retired to the Royal quarters, the king thought that being immersed in such a _scholarly _environment might have some beneficial effect. The palace archives were located in a wide tower on the north-eastern corner of the palace, in an impressive, lofty chamber that housed circular balconies on six different levels. Bookshelves and cabinets were crowded around the curved stone walls, organised in some obscure reference system that only the chief archivist fully understood. Desks and reading tables were scattered haphazardly on each level; a giant framed map of Denerim was located on the third balcony and an even larger one of Ferelden was located on the fifth. The entire space was lit by an iron shaft that hung from the ceiling, from which wreaths of candles extended at every level, like the spokes of a wheel.

The king of Ferelden was sitting on a curved window seat on the third level, leaning back against the frame with one knee bent casually upwards. His queen was settled against his chest, boots discarded on the floor and bare feet propped up on the opposite side of the window frame. She wore an expression of extreme focus; her gaze fixated on the manuscript in her hands.

"The- Red… Por- Porgy of… S- Se- slime_-"_

"_Slime?"_

Alistair peered over Flora's shoulder at the crumpled page. "Oh, Seleny. It's a city in Antiva, Zev has mentioned it before. Apparently it's got lots of statues. And bridges."

"And _red porgies," _Flora added, more interested in the fish.

"_You're_ my red porgy," Alistair replied, nuzzling his face into her dishevelled hair to find the curve of her neck. "Mm."

Flora beamed, swivelling between his thighs so that he could kiss her. Alistair readily accepted her silent invitation and dropped his mouth to hers, his lips working warm and confident against her own. She let the manuscript of _Even More_ _Exotic Fish of Thedas _fall from her lap; curling an arm about his neck and temporarily ceding ownership of her mouth to his desirous tongue. As they kissed with languid familiarity on the window bench, Alistair's fingers edged their way surreptitiously beneath the neckline of Flora's tunic.

The next moment, he let out a squawk of surprise; withdrawing rapidly and pulling something cold and wet from between her breasts. He flung the dark green clump to the flagstones in horror, eyes bulging.

"_Aah! What the – _Maker's Breath!"

"Oh," said Flora, in sudden understanding. "That's the _bladder wrack."_

"The _what?!"_

"Seaweed from the estuary. You can dry it out and eat it. It's nice!"

Alistair eyed the lumpen cluster of seaweed on the flagstones and thought that it looked like the most unappetising dish in Thedas.

"If you say so, my love," he murmured, turning her chin to face him once again. "Now, where were we?"

A short time later, Leliana came up in search of king and queen. The _library_ was the last place that she had expected to find the former Wardens; but sure enough, they were both seated on a window bench on the third level of the archive tower.

Alistair was absorbed in an account of Ferelden's history during the Storm Age. He had first picked up the book out of a vague sense of obligation – to learn more about the heritage of the country he had inherited stewardship of – but had found himself reluctantly fascinated. He was currently reading on Warden-Commander Sophia Dryden's attempted rebellion against the throne; an event which he had heard Loghain snidely alluding to at Ostagar. When Alistair had asked Duncan – slightly shocked – _why _the Grey Wardens would want to rebel against the king, Duncan had merely smiled vaguely and promised to explain at a later date.

Flora was supposed to be practising her writing, but was instead gazing out of the window while chewing absentmindedly on the end of her ink-pen. She had relocated herself to sit on the opposite side of the bench, her feet in her husband's lap.

"Leliana," Alistair called, spotting the bard ascending a staircase below. "Did you know that the Couslands once plotted with the Wardens to overthrow King Arland Theirin? The Cousland teyrn was _executed _for his treachery!"

"Of course I knew that," Leliana replied with a little sniff, as she reached the third floor. "It's a fundamental part of Fereldan history."

Alistair reached down to touch Flora's bare foot as it rested on his thigh.

"My love," he murmured, lifting her slender leg by the ankle and holding it on his shoulder. "Your ancestors were _troublemakers_. Resisting Calenhad, rebelling with the Grey Wardens…!"

Flora, whose natural instinct was to be _obedient,_ was caught between disapproval and a desire to defend her forefathers.

"Well," she said, trying not to lose her train of thought as he pressed a kiss to her toes. "Maybe _your _ancestors should have kept a closer eye on _my _ancestors. Made sure they weren't being… naughty."

"Well, better late than never," Alistair replied solemnly, letting the book slide from his hand and reaching out to draw her onto his thighs. "I'll _happily_ keep a close eye on you now."

Forgetting about the ink-pen, Flora put her arms around his neck and embraced him enthusiastically.

Leliana decided to allow the couple a few moments more before recalling them to public obligation; reaching down to retrieve the parchment that had slipped from Flora's lap. The bard's brow furrowed as she read the three faltering sentences that Flora had managed to scribe over the course of an hour – each one barely legible.

"Alright, _amoureux_," the bard said at last, clearing her throat pointedly as Flora's fingers slid surreptitiously down Alistair's abdomen. "Your free time is over. You've got your first portrait sitting this evening."

Alistair let out a groan, sitting back against the window frame and putting a hand to his head.

"Ah, Maker's Breath! I forgot about that."

"_Portrait sitting?" _repeated Flora, in confusion. "What's that?"

Her best friend grimaced, reaching out to smooth down the rumpled strands of her hair.

"Sorry, sweetheart, I should've mentioned it earlier. We have to have a portrait painted to mark the coronation. It's going to hang in that long corridor near the meeting chambers."

Flora creased her forehead, recalling the passageway that Alistair was referring to. It was lined with a series of large oil on canvas paintings of previous Theirin monarchs; the three most recent being Moira, the Rebel Queen, Maric and a dark-haired woman that must have been Rowan Guerrin, and finally, Cailen looking fidgety beside Anora.

"Oh," she said, then realised that the ink-pen had exploded its contents down the front of her tunic. "Oh, do I need to change my top?"

Leliana let out a little tut, but shook her head.

"No, the artist will paint you in the garb you wore at the coronation. This sitting is to sketch out pose and _face _references."

Alistair groaned, stretching out cramped limbs as he rose reluctantly to his feet. He had seen portrait sittings before – Isolde Guerrin liked to get a new painting of herself done every year. This was a laborious process which involved a myriad of different outfits, the fencing off of whichever part of Redcliffe Castle she wanted to feature in the background, and the increased blood pressure of all in the vicinity. On one memorable occasion prior to her annual portrait sitting, Isolde had imported liberal amounts of Antivan pomegranate oil – she had heard that bathing in it would enhance one's youth and beauty. Unfortunately, the crate must have been dropped somewhere in transit between Rialto and Redcliffe. On being opened, the liquidous contents spilled across the flagstones in a vast, scented puddle. As Eamon had commented wryly, the great hall had smelt like an Antivan whorehouse for _weeks_.

Even as Alistair grimaced in recollection, Flora caught his eye and smiled up at him; reaching out to anchor his fingers in hers. The king blinked, then grinned back down at her, squeezing her palm against his own.

"No matter how skilled the artist," he murmured, throatily. "They'll never be able to capture the beauty of your- "

"_HURRY UP!" _Leliana demanded, having already half-descended the stairs in an effort to move them along. "Everything is set up and _waiting _for you!"

"I was trying to be _romantic," _grumbled Alistair, as Flora snickered in juvenile fashion behind him. "There had better not be any _pomegranate oil _involved_."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: The dwarven engineer definitely made Flora's crude design a lot better, haha! As you'd expect from a professional. I borrowed the bit about the waste water being released periodically into the tidal flow from the 1860s London sewer design, which released dirty water into the saltwater of the Thames, timed with the tide!
> 
> I mentioned this before in the original, but Flo's literacy is still poor because she's dyslexic – naturally a condition which is not really understood within the context of Ferelden, lol. She definitely has the capacity to improve, but needs pretty intensive tutelage to do so. Unfortunately, she's not hugely motivated in that regard XD


	73. Remember The Past

Unfortunately, the portrait sitting turned out to be a somewhat lengthy process. The artist – a Denerim native who had spent so long in Orlais that he no longer sounded Fereldan – had chosen to set up his easel on the Alamarri balcony at the far end of the Landsmeet chamber. With the shutters drawn back, the muddied expanse of the plains stretched out for several miles; culminating in the low, rolling hills of the Bannorn. It was not the most attractive background for a royal portrait, but the Alamarri plains themselves had been deemed as _historically significant _following the final battle.

Every hearth and candelabra in the Landsmeet chamber had been ignited to bolster the fading light; two braziers from the battlements had been brought down to provide additional illumination. Alistair was standing against the balcony, his hand on Flora's shoulder as she perched on a stool before him. The brush of the artist would transform stool into throne; day-clothes into ceremonial regalia; and the hearth-poker at Alistair's side would become an ornate silverite blade.

Leliana, who had an eye for the aesthetic, was hovering in the background; issuing a stream of instructions to the artist's assistant as he struggled to note them all down.

"My legs are falling asleep," Alistair hissed, without moving his head. "We've been here for _two candles."_

"Didn't you learn patience in the monastery?" Leliana called, lowering herself to a nearby bench before recalling yet another instruction that she needed to deliver to the beleaguered assistant.

"I'm sure they tried to teach it to me at some point," Alistair grumbled, then groaned under his breath as the _faux-Orlesian_ artist meandered towards them once more. "Oh, here he comes again to _grope_ your face some more!"

Flora grimaced as the artist came to a halt before her, cooing something unintelligible in a mangled Val Royeaux dialect that made Leliana cringe. He reached out to frame her face with his fingers, turning her head from side to side and inspecting the finely-hewn angles.

"He's going to make you look like a goddess," Alistair muttered under his breath as the artist pranced back towards his easel without sparing the king a single glance. "Which is accurate, darling. But I'm going to look like a cave troll. He's barely bothered to _look _at me."

"Ooh, _I_ want to look like a cave troll too," Flora said, enchanted at the prospect. "A cave troll in a dress."

Alistair grinned, ruffling her hair affectionately and then hastily flattening it once more after a glower from Leliana.

"Anyway, my love," he murmured in an undertone, trying not to move his mouth. "We need to think about the memorial to Duncan and the Grey Wardens."

Flora let out a strangled squawk of assent, unable to nod. Alistair continued, letting his thumb rub in slow circles over her shoulder blade.

"I don't know whether it's best to have one at Ostagar, or one here in Denerim. Or at Highever – I know he spent a lot of time there during his youth."

Flora bit her lip, anxiously. The more selfish part of her wanted the memorial to be located as close as possible; so she could go and pay proper and frequent homage to it. If it had been up to _her_, the statue would be located within the Royal Palace itself.

"I think it should be where everyone can see it," she replied, at last. "So all of Ferelden knows about him and the rest of the Wardens. And their sacrifice."

_Even you, Warden Stene. I wish you were here to call me a one-trick pony again._

_I'm not even a one-trick pony anymore! I'm a show pony._

Alistair thought for a moment, brow creasing.

"There should be two memorials, then," he said, slowly. "A memorial at Ostagar to mark the loss of the Wardens. And one for Duncan, here in Denerim. With a proper inscription to explain who he was."

Unable to resist, Flora twisted her head and pressed her lips to Alistair's fingers as he rested them gently on her shoulder. At a reactionary squawk of protest from the artist, she returned to her original position, trying not to beam. Although Flora had known Duncan for only five weeks; the words that he had spoken to her were inscribed on the inside of her skull, as though carved there by some skilled engraver.

_In Rivain, we have mages who commune with the spirits as you do, young sister. They number few, and even fewer in Ferelden. I think you may be one, Flora._

_You have a rare and precious gift. I would not trade your unique talent for all the conjured flame in Thedas._

_Use it well, little sister!_

With his words, the Warden-Commander had transformed Flora from defective mage into _spirit healer; _the first person since she had been taken from Herring to truly understand and _appreciate_ her utility. It had been a ground-breaking moment in Flora's life, and the foundation upon which she had forged much of her strength during the trials of recent months.

"It should be something _Warden-ish," _she breathed, Duncan's low, faintly accented voice echoing between her ears. "Like… a griffon. With a ponytail and an earring like he used to wear!"

Alistair, assuming she was joking, snorted. When Flora fell into a sulky silence, he blinked; realising that she had been serious.

"Oh, baby, I'm sorry," he said, ducking quickly to kiss the top of her head. "I didn't realise that you were – _anyway. _I like the idea of the griffon, but nobody apart from us will know what the earring and ponytail means. They'll just assume that the griffon was… very fashionable."

Flora relented; seeing his point.

"Maybe we should have a shrine to Duncan in our bedroom instead," she wondered out loud, and Alistair gave a strangled cough.

"Ah, maybe." He hastily changed the subject. "Have you thought any more about names for the baby, sweetheart? We need something that'll strike fear into the hearts of the Orlesians, in case they ever entertain thoughts of invading again."

"_Stingray,"_ Flora said, immediately. "For a boy or a girl."

Alistair abandoned any attempt to keep himself in the required pose; slumping back against the Alamarri balcony with a guffaw that reverberated to the rafters.

"_Stingray?!"_

Flora beamed: she had not intended to make Alistair laugh, but found that she did not mind the outcome this time.

"_King Stingray I_ would certainly strike fear into the hearts of the Orlesians," chimed in Leliana benevolently, from beside the confused artist.

Still chuckling to himself, Alistair sunk to his knees before Flora, encircling her belly with the span of his hands and pressing his lips to the wool-covered curve.

"I love our little Stingray," he breathed earnestly, raising green-flecked eyes above the apex of Flora's stomach. "And I love my best girl, who made me laugh during the worst days of the Blight, and still makes me laugh now."

* * *

That night, Alistair woke up from a nightmare so realistic that he could still taste the metallic tang of fear in his mouth as he sat bolt upright, staring mindlessly into the darkness. The bedchamber was veiled in shadow, lit only from its eastern face by the muted glow of the hearth. The room was scented with the gently burnt scent of cedarwood, which mingled not-unpleasantly with the salty air creeping in through the open window.

Alistair could not remember what had transpired in the Fade that had caused his heart to leap forward so erratically. He had a suspicion that it was one of the two subjects that fuelled the majority of his nightmares: either some haunting memory of Ostagar, or a macabre vision of harm befalling his former sister-warden.

Reflexively, he reached out beneath the furs and felt for his wife. There was a dent on the pillow beside him and a hollow in the mattress where her body had curled; yet the bed beside him was empty. With an irrational twist of alarm in his gut, Alistair pushed himself up against the cushions, squinting through the shadows.

Just then, the door opened a fraction and Flora sidled in, barefoot in her nightgown and clutching a candle in a holster. She smiled when she saw Alistair awake, the small flame bobbing in the gloom as she padded across the flagstones.

"This is the _third time_ I've had to use the privy tonight," she whispered, rolling her eyes as she set the candle down on a low cabinet. "I think the baby's head is pressed against my bladder."

As Alistair set eyes on his wife, he suddenly – with a recoil of horror - recalled the subject of his nightmare. A choked sound of dismay escaped his throat, and Flora peered at him in alarm.

"Flo, I _hit _you!" Alistair breathed, a distinct tremor to his words as they filtered through the darkness.

"What?" Flora asked, confused. _"When?"_

She sat down on the edge of the bed, reaching over the mound of blankets and furs to touch Alistair's paling face.

"When we were fighting the blood mage in the warehouse," he muttered. "I- I _punched _you in the face. I punched you, and you were _four months with child. Maker's Breath!"_

He passed a hand roughly over his face with a grimace of almost physical pain, bending double.

Flora stared at her best friend for several moments, his powerful frame wracked with the twin wolves of guilt and grief. She had no memory of the fight against the powerful maleficar; but had been regaled on its details by Wynne later the same day.

"Alistair," she said with Herring logicality, squinting through the gloom in an effort to see his face. "You were mind-controlled by a blood mage. It wasn't _you _that hit me. We've been over this before."

"I could have hurt the baby," Alistair breathed, clearly not listening to her. "I could have _killed _it, if I'd hit you anywhere else."

"It wasn't _you," _started Flora, then changed tactic. "Anyway, the baby was fine. It wasn't hurt at all."

She reached out to take his hand and placed it on the curve of her belly; the little creature obligingly gave a vigorous wriggle. Alistair inhaled unsteadily, sliding his hand between the buttons of her nightgown to caress the fleshy mound protectively. For a moment, Flora thought that he had calmed; then his face contorted once more.

"What kind of father am I?" the king asked her, tremulously. "One who endangers the life of his child?"

"Well, what kind of _mother _am I?" Flora countered fiercely, her pale, solemn eyes bright within the gloom. "I was _five _months with child when I led our armies against the Darkspawn. I felt the baby move the night before the _final battle, _and I still fought. I went to face the Archdemon convinced that we were _both_ going to die."

Alistair was silent for a moment, the green flecks in his hazel eyes illuminated by the muted light of the hearth.

"But you did it because there was no alternative," he replied, quietly. "Denerim would have been overrun if the Archdemon hadn't been slain. We would all have died if you hadn't fought. You had no choice."

"And neither did _you," _Flora replied immediately, having bargained on Alistair reaching this conclusion. "You were mind-controlled. You had no choice, either."

Alistair stared at her for a moment, his mouth opening to offer a counter argument and then realising that there _was_ none. Flora pressed her advantage, crawling over the blankets and clambering bodily into her husband's lap; wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck.

"I'm a Herring limpet," she said into his shoulder, the words muffled. "You'll never pry me off."

Alistair drew her tight against his chest, one hand coming up to cup the back of her head. He inhaled unsteadily, combing tender fingers through loose strands of dark red hair and thumbing the curve of her ear.

"If it were up to me, I'd never let you go," he replied, softly.

Weary from being woken three times already that night, Flora fell asleep on his chest within minutes. Alistair remained sitting upright against the cushions, holding his wife in his lap and stroking a hand determinedly up and down the line of her slender back.

_And I'll never let anything hurt you again, _he thought quietly to himself. _I swear it._


	74. Dealing With The Former Queen

Over a breakfast of herbed eggs and unleavened bread in the Royal bedchamber, Eamon briefed the king on the day's obligations. The majority of the afternoon would be spent in preparation for the progress, which was scheduled to depart the next day. Alistair, Flora, Wynne, Teagan, Zevran and an elite selection of Royal Guard would be embarking upon a two month long journey, which would not see them return to the capital until the early autumn. Fergus had also loaned them several Highever mabari to join the dogs from the palace kennels, as well as the use of his best knight, Ser Gilmore.

"Do _you_ want some eggs, Arl Eamon?" Flora offered the Chancellor amiably, as he paused for breath.

"I've already broken my fast," murmured Eamon with some reluctance, trying not to eye the steaming bowl on the table before him. "And Isolde has told me to watch my waistline."

"Go on," Alistair wheedled, nudging the bowl of eggs across the table towards the arl. "They're delicious. Flo and I won't tell, we _promise."_

As Flora gave a solemn nod of confirmation, Eamon relented; forking a generous helping of buttered, chive-sprinkled eggs onto a spare platter. Alistair poured his uncle a fresh tankard of ale as Flora stifled a yawn, shifting on the chair beside him.

"So, preparations for the progress are happening this afternoon," the king repeated, tilting his head absentmindedly towards a seagull's clarion call from the window. "And I'm going to go down to the kennels and see the dogs. Fergus' bitch – Saela - whelped a litter yesterday evening. I want to choose the strongest two pups for Flo; they'll be ready to leave their mother by the time we return to Denerim."

Alistair reached over to pat Flora's knee, and she smiled at him with slight trepidation. Flora had not had much experience with Mabari – nobody in Herring could either _afford,_ or had any _need_ for one, and the Circle Tower had cats to keep the mice population under control. Jethro – Finian's dog, who had perished defending his unconscious master from the Darkspawn during the final battle – had been friendly enough; but also had a tendency of barking loudly and putting his paws up on her shoulders. Flora, who was on the short side, had found this a little unnerving.

_Which is ridiculous, _she thought sternly to herself. _I'm a Fereldan native, descended from the oldest Alamarri tribes. Mabari hounds are part of my ancestry._

_Probably _literally,_ if the rumours about my namesake, Teyrna Ragenhilda, were true. Ha! Haha._

Eamon finished forking down the last mouthful of eggs, casting a rueful eye down at his own waistline.

"It feels as though I've put on a hundredweight since I've been in Denerim," he said, easing himself back in his chair. "Too much ale and rich food. Perhaps Isolde has a point."

"Personally, I think it's a great improvement from when you were wasting away from the maleficar's poison," Alistair countered, and the arl gave a soft grunt of agreement.

_Jowan, _Flora thought to herself. _I'll have to light my candles tonight. I don't know when we'll next be in a Chantry._

"What's planned for this morning?" Alistair asked, wiping his mouth with the napkin before tossing it onto the table. Wandering over to the mirror, he picked up the small shaving blade and inspected the rough stubble rising on his neck. "I have a feeling you're going to say _five hour meeting. _Say it quickly, it'll be less painful."

"No, not a meeting," replied Eamon, and then paused.

The hesitation in the arl's voice drew the attention of both king and queen. Alistair put down his shaving blade and turned around, eyebrows rising in silent query.

"Uncle?"

"The stonemasons' guild has finished a programme of repairs at Fort Drakon," the arl said, softly. "They've invited you both to come and see the work."

Alistair inhaled unsteadily, his gaze swivelling to meet Flora's solemn stare. From her face, it was clear that she was thinking along similar lines.

_I don't have any good memories from that place. First, Howe held me prisoner there for three days, and then…_

As shocking and unexpected as a traitor's blade, the Archdemon's fanged maw rose to the forefront of Flora's memory; clear as if she had seen it only the previous day.

_It carried its head low, like a snake; hooded eyes flickering and full of malice._

Beside the mirror, Alistair had gone several shades paler, and Flora suddenly felt very sorry for him.

_I don't even remember killing the Archdemon on the rooftop. I remember creating my barrier, and letting my spirits in – then a black tide floods my mind, the sound of the Waking Sea in my ears._

_Poor Alistair; his first memory of Fort Drakon is seeing me, seemingly Tranquil, docile in the arms of Arl Howe. His second memory is of me 'sacrificing' myself to the Archdemon on the rooftop._

_No wonder he doesn't want to go back there._

"I can go and see the repair work," Flora said, impulsively. "I don't mind going, Arl Eamon. Alistair, you can stay here if you want."

Alistair shook his head, the corners of his mouth pulling tight with barely restrained emotion.

"No, my love," he replied quietly, turning back to the mirror and picking up the shaving blade with a trembling hand. "Of course I'm coming with you."

A moment later he let out a muffled curse, dropping the blade with a clatter onto the dresser as a bead of blood swelled on his jaw. Flora pushed herself upright, feeling the baby fidget within her belly as she went to Alistair's side. No longer able to heal her best friend's shaving nicks with a kiss from her parted lips, she instead licked her finger and pressed it against the cut. Alistair stared down at her with a myriad of emotions fighting for dominance within his green-speckled eyes.

"I'm still here," Flora whispered up at him, softly enough that her words did not reach Arl Eamon. "I'm still here, you're still here. That's what _matters."_

She withdrew her finger, her own pale grey eyes searching his face. Alistair took a deep, steadying breath; ducking to kiss her on the forehead.

"Right, so – Fort Drakon this morning," he said, turning back towards his uncle. "The fortress is a vital part of Denerim's defences; it's good to know that it's been restored."

Flora smiled at him surreptitiously, proud of her best friend's raised chin and stiffened shoulders. She knew that Alistair had his own version of _deep breath, chin up, eyes straight, _and that he was utilising it now.

"Good, I'll speak to the steward and get the horses prepared," replied Eamon. "Will you be ready to leave soon?"

"Yes," replied Alistair, and there was no tremor in his voice. "As soon as I've gone to see Anora Mac Tir."

Flora, who had just sat down on the bed to tighten the leather strap around her knee, looked up in alarm. She had naively assumed that Alistair had forgotten about the thrown-tankard incident from several days prior; the cut on her head was now merely a small scab resting atop a fading bruise.

However, it was now clear that Alistair had not forgotten – or forgiven – the contempt that Anora had shown to his wife. Instead, he had deliberately waited for the passage of a day to dull the sharp edge of his fury; the blind rage cooling into a more calculated anger.

As the king strode towards the newest section of the Royal Palace with his fingers grasped tightly around the hand of his queen, he went over - for a fifth time - the speech that he had planned the night before. Unlike Flora, who spoke best in bouts of spontaneity, Alistair felt more confident when he had had time to prepare his words in advance.

Flora, close at his side, was experiencing feelings of mild trepidation. She had not heard Alistair's meticulously planned speech, and was half-expecting the words _off with her head! _to emerge from her husband's mouth. As they turned onto the wide, sunlit corridor with the faded ochre and cream tapestries hanging from the wall, she tried to think of ways to save Anora's slender neck from the headsman's blade.

The Royal Guard posted outside the Mac Tir quarters gave a prompt salute; they had been anticipating the king's arrival. Alistair barely spared a glance for the desecrated Mac Tir dragon above the entrance, heading without pause towards the doors. The guards hastened to open them and Alistair strode through with eyes glinting like chips of bronze.

Flora followed him into the chamber, grimacing at the stagnant odour of mildew and rotten food. The room was in no better condition than it had been two days prior. The only significant difference was that now the bedsheets had been hung up over the grimy windows, shrouding the chamber in dull gloom. The lifeless hearth was filled with ashes and the sad remnants of Anora's royal gowns.

Anora herself was sitting at the end of the bed, clad in the same nightgown, her hair hanging in loose tendrils around her face. Her eyes were sunken, her skin greasy and mottled, and she looked far older than her three decades. Despite the fact that the woman had thrown a tankard towards her head the last time that they had come face to face, Flora suddenly felt desperately sorry for her.

Alistair paused for the briefest moment at the general disarray, then strode over to the windows and methodically yanked loose the bedsheets. Sunlight filtered in through the dirty glass, casting a mellow pallor over the chaos within. Anora flinched, putting up a hand reflexively to shield her eyes from the sudden brightness.

"I want to _see_ that you understand what I'm saying," Alistair said over his shoulder, the clipped Theirin drawl shaping each word as it emerged. "So that there's no chance of confusion."

Anora looked at him, the resignation writ clear across her face. It was clear that she expected either the block or the stocks; at the very least, some manner of public humiliation as a consequence for her impulsive throw. Alistair gazed back at her, and Flora suddenly thought that she saw a shred of pity mingled within the cold, refined anger of his glare.

"I don't know whether you deliberately sought to hit my wife with that tankard, or whether you've just got poor aim," he started, with a faint vein of Marician menace. "I think it must be the latter, because you seemed to have _missed_ a few important things recently. You know that the Blight is ended, don't you? That the Archdemon is nearly two months dead?"

Anora let her pointed chin drop forward a fraction; she was not ignorant of recent events. Alistair continued, his tone balancing on the line between anger that was controlled and anger that was _not._

"And the person responsible for _both _of those feats is standing beside me. My wife will be named in the archives as the _Hero of Ferelden; _vanquisher of the Fifth Blight; saviour of Denerim; gatherer of the first united force in the nation's history. And you _disrespected _her! All because you believe that she's '_taken' _your rightful position as Queen."

Alistair's voice lashed across the room like a whip, sharp and stinging. Anora opened her mouth but he raised his voice, retaining control of the conversation.

"You didn't lose your status as Queen at the Landsmeet, or when I took Flora as my wife. You lost your status as Queen when you failed to take action to protect your country; when you and your father let the Blight spread over the south for _months, _denying its existence even when refugees were pouring into Denerim in their thousands."

Anora stared at him, the whites of her eyes standing out stark against the pale blue irises. Her bony shoulders, which stuck out through the thin material of the nightgown, hunched over, and she began to twist her wedding ring around her finger.

"I'd… rather the axe than the noose," she murmured, her voice hoarse and rasping.

Alistair looked at her, and his voice softened a fraction.

"I'm not going to have you executed; you're no longer a threat to me," he said, quietly. "But it's time to accept reality and... forge a new path for yourself. I won't have you wasting away in this chamber, for starters – you have obligations to your father's neglected teyrnir. I'll send servants to clean your quarters – you're going to permit them to do this – and I'll have some linens and clothing sent up. The guards will take you into the grounds, if you want some fresh air."

Alistair paused to take a breath and when he spoke again, the cold steeliness had returned to his voice.

"However, if you raise a single finger against my wife again – or disrespect her in _any way – _I won't be able to guarantee your safety. Nor will I be inclined to do so. Do you understand me?"

Anora paused, and then tilted her head an infinitesimal degree.

"Yes, King Alistair."

"Just _Alistair _is fine," the king replied, returning to the doorway to reclaim Flora's fingers. "After all, you are my… sister-in-law."

Flora, who was both proud of and slightly awed by the authority in her best friend's voice, squeezed his palm tightly. Alistair returned the pressure, nodding for the guards to open the door.

"I wasn't trying to hit you with the tankard, Florence. I swear to the Maker."

The words filtered out from the grubby room as they made to leave. Flora turned around, her solemn eyes focusing once more on the forlorn figure sitting on the end of the bed.

"I believe you," she said, impulsively. "Your aim is as bad as mine."

As the Royal couple headed back down the wide, sunlit passage; Flora cast an admiring glance at her tall, golden-headed husband. The light streaming through the leaded windows illuminated the strong profile of his face, the prominent angle of the Marician jaw and high, noble brow.

"You spoke very well in there," she whispered, proudly. "Very _commanding_."

Alistair let out a rueful laugh, bringing their conjoined fingers to his mouth to plant a kiss on her knuckles.

"I practised what I was going to say last night, my love," he admitted, cheerfully. "I had all my lines planned out in my head."

"Well, it didn't sound rehearsed at all," the loyal Flora replied, without hesitation. "And… thank you for being merciful towards Anora. I was worried that you were going to chop her head off."

Alistair gave a little grimace and did not answer immediately, reaching out to steady her arm as they descended the wide stone staircase that led back to the old heart of the palace. The west corridor was in the middle of repairs – one wall had crumbled away, leaving a gaping hole that looked out onto the estuary.

As always, Flora paused to take in the view. She gazed down at the milky green stretch of water below, crowded on both sides with a sprawl of myriad structures. The tall, pointed tower of the Grand Chantry rose up like the hat of a priestess, casting a stern shadow across the Square of the Bride. Flora swung her gaze from the impressive buildings in the noble district – she knew well enough what they looked like – and sought out instead the high walls of the alienage. It was huddled on the southern face of the city, a desolate labyrinth that gained very little sunlight.

_The new waste-water channel will have been finished by the time we return from this progress, _she thought to herself, determinedly. _Then I'll think about what can be done next to improve the alienage. I'll try and meet with their ha- har- harhan – their leader._

Flora's thoughts were interrupted by Alistair wrapping his arms around her from behind, encircling her belly with proud, protective tenderness. He rested his chin atop her head, his eyes fixed not on the city but on the mottled blue and white sky; the sun burning through the last of the morning mists.

"I _did _want Anora dead at first," he murmured, fingers caressing the swollen curve of flesh. "But, Teagan was right; I shouldn't make decisions when I'm angry. Anora isn't a threat anymore, and… she should have a chance of showing some loyalty. Her father – as much as it pains me to admit it – is beginning to make amends, so she should be given an opportunity to do so as well. Apparently, she was a decent politician before she let her own father usurp her."

Flora twisted her head to beam up at him and Alistair ducked to brush his lips softly against her approving mouth.

"Hard to believe that going to see _Anora Mac Tir _was actually the _high point _of the morning," he added, a grim note creeping into his tone.

The eyes of both king and queen swung above the rooftops in silent synchrony; resting on the ancient basalt citadel that sat on the very edge of the city.

_Fort Drakon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: OOhhh this was a good chapter to write! I think Alistair showed a lot of maturity when dealing with Anora – once he'd calmed down, lol. It was also nice to write him acting 'kingly', even if he had to practice his speech the night before, haha. It's hardened Alistair in action – he's showing Anora some compassion, but it's within rigid guidelines and on his own terms… and the threat of punishment if she steps out of line!
> 
> Castles like the palace at Denerim – or any large castle – would have been in a perpetual state of ongoing repair. There would always be bits falling down, or holes in the walls… it's why I don't mind the holes in Skyhold, lol. It's normal to have a bit of disrepair at all times!


	75. Return To Fort Drakon

Like its counterpart at Ostagar, the ancient Tevinter stronghold of Fort Drakon was built to _intimidate_; to loom ominously above the buildings huddled in its far-reaching shadow. With the jagged towers and battlements silhouetted against the morning sun, it appeared more weapon than structure.

They could not take the most straightforward route to the fortress, since the roadway atop the city wall had been mangled by the Archdemon during the last, chaotic chase towards Fort Drakon. Alistair had urged the resolute mare forwards at breakneck pace; while Flora had shielded them from the angry dragon as it clawed its way along the wall in their wake.

Instead, Eamon led them on a circuitous route around the rear of the Grand Chantry, across the Square of the Bride and over the traders' bridge; thus avoiding the majority of the crowds. Alistair and Flora, perched atop the same saddle as usual, followed the arl's tawny mare, alongside Leliana and Leonas Bryland. Many of the soldiers from the Royal Army had been recruited to assist the stonemasons, their efforts overseen by the new general.

Flora could feel Alistair shifting unhappily in the saddle behind her, trying not to look at the looming tower as it gradually expanded to take up the skyline ahead. He had said very little to either Leonas or Eamon on the journey down from the palace, and since Flora was not an especially _talkative_ individual; it was left to Leliana to make conversation. Fortunately, this was the bard's speciality. She managed to maintain a light and natural dialogue with both Leonas and Eamon for the entire duration of the journey; veering between discussing the coronation, the wedding, the entertainment and the weather. Alistair still made no reply; dropping the reins on occasion to run a palm over his wife's living, breathing frame on the saddle before him. 

Finally, they turned onto the final approach leading up to the fortress – a narrow, cobbled incline lined with crumbling and barely recognisable statues of Fereldan heroes from Ages past.

"Flora, I've had some travelling clothes sent up to your bedchamber," Leliana called across from where she sat astride her grey mare, finally beginning to exhaust her conversation reserves. "Do you have much skill with a needle? You'll need to let all your tunics out over the course of the two months."

Flora nodded; she had been darning holes in fishing nets since she was a child.

"I'm going to be _huge _by then," she breathed, glad to be distracted from the towering spectre of Fort Drakon ahead. "I'm going to be as round as I am tall. I'll be _rolling _back to Denerim!"

"My plump little pumpkin," Alistair chimed in, momentarily roused from his brooding. "Wynne says that a big, strong babe is a _good _thing."

"Says the person that doesn't have to _push it out,"_ Flora retorted, and her best friend grinned and pressed a kiss to the back of her head.

Then the long shadow of Drakon's highest spire fell over the road, and all conversation died away. The ancient fortress – far older than the city it now guarded – still bore the scars from the final battle. The eastern face was blackened from dragon fire, the charring deep enough that it could not be washed away. One of the lower towers had been knocked down by a glancing blow from the Archdemon's wing; the rubble had been removed, but the fortress now seemed oddly asymmetrical. The gatehouse had been swarmed by the Darkspawn as they responded to the clarion call of their old god for aid, and now stood only with the aid of extensive scaffolding.

The horses came to a halt outside the main entrance as the portcullis was raised in slow, creaking increments.

"Look at that," Eamon murmured in an undertone to Leonas, gesturing to the walls at either side of the entrance. The stone was disfigured with hundreds of claw marks; vicious, deranged slashes as though the enemy had been trying to burrow their way inside the fortress.

"Aye," the general replied wryly, nudging his horse forwards beneath the raised portcullis. "I understand well enough what damage the Darkspawn are capable of inflicting."

He raised his maimed hand in an ironic salute, squinting up against the midday sun. The stonemasons had downed tools for the royal visit; dozens of workers stood in neat rows at the centre of the courtyard. Their numbers were bolstered by fifty men from the Royal Army, who were grateful not to be drilling in full armour beneath the Solace sun.

As several workers hurried forward to take their horses, Flora felt Alistair take a deep breath behind her; her best friend steeling himself for what was to come. Dropping agilely onto the cobblestones, he immediately reached upwards to lift his wife down in his wake. Alistair's eyes moved briefly over her face, as though reassuring himself that she was alive and well before him. This confirmed, he exhaled long and steadily; and although her husband was not currently wearing the crown of state, Flora saw him lift his chin to bear its invisible pressure. He did not spare a glance for the high balcony overhead where Howe had flaunted his 'Tranquil' Cousland trophy; much like she was determinedly ignoring the corner of the courtyard where Riordan had plunged to his death.

"Ready, my dear?" he asked, softly.

When Flora gave a little nod, Alistair reached out and took her arm in courtly manner. As he did so, the flat of his callused thumb brushed over the fourth finger of her left hand, touching _Mairyn's Star _and the fish-rope wedding ring as though they were talismans of fortitude.

Together, the king and queen of Ferelden headed across the cobblestones to greet the master of the stone masons. Alistair had met the master mason before, during one of the countless council meetings that had taken place in the post-Blight weeks.

"Master Answald," Alistair said, recalling the man's name just in time. "I'd like to introduce _my wife, _Florence Cousland."

Pride gilded the king's words, his eyes warm as he glanced down to where she stood dutifully at his side. A small ripple of excitement went through the crowd of assembled workers; and there was a shuffling of feet as those at the back shifted for a better view. Several of the soldiers, recalling the slight, crimson-ponytailed figure standing at the head of the Fereldan free army, lifted their arms in a salute.

The master mason bowed once more towards Flora, a slight tremble to his knees.

"It's an honour – _no – _the _greatest _honour to welcome you, your majesty," he croaked, stumbling over his words in his nervousness. "Your… Hero-of-Ferelden-ness."

There was a somewhat bemused silence, as Leliana let out a soft, Orlesian snort. The master mason was now as red as a beetroot, a bead of sweat rolling down his nose.

Flora, recalling the haughty coolness of her natural face, smiled and stepped forward. She put her hand on the man's elbow, resting nail-bitten fingers on his forearm.

"I'm looking forward to seeing the repairs," Flora went on to say, with the soft, throaty and entirely incongruous intonation of a northern peasant. "Let's go inside."

Beaming, the master mason proceeded inside the main body of the fortress with the queen on his arm. Unable to help himself, Alistair cast a quick glance up at the high balcony where Howe and Flora had once stood. To his intense irritation, it appeared to have survived the final fight with the Archdemon unscathed.

The lower levels of Fort Drakon had been swarmed by the Darkspawn during the last frantic moments of the final battle. After the death of the Archdemon, they had fled in mindless confusion, only to meet the division of soldiers sent by Leonas Bryland to aid the troops at the fortress. Whilst on the lower floors – which mostly consisted of barracks and armouries – they had left deep claw marks on walls and doors; dislodged flagstones and smashed every item of furniture in their path.

The master mason led them down the wide central corridor, a double height stone passageway lit by iron rings studded with candles hanging from the ceiling. Proudly, he gestured to each refurbished armoury and garrison; showing off the re-tiled floors and freshly plastered walls. Leonas Bryland, in his capacity as general, asked pertinent questions about the replenishment of the armoury stock, which the mason could answer to a limited degree.

"Four armouries out of the six have been fully restocked with new weapons," he replied, gesturing them towards a circular staircase. "The other two still require weapon-stands before they can be used."

"We don't need to wait for _weapon-stands,"_ replied Leonas, with a small grunt. "Lean the bloody pole-arms against the wall if need be."

"Aye, General. I'll see to it."

Alistair took Flora's hand in his as they approached the circular staircase, noting the steepness of the steps. She smiled sideways at him, appreciating the concern.

"Everyone else can go in front," she said, apologetically. "It takes me longer to go up stairs."

As they brought up the rear of the party – with only the ubiquitous quartet of Royal Guard behind them – Alistair squeezed Flora's fingers tightly, dropping his voice to a murmur.

"This isn't – _traumatising _for you, is it?" he asked, in an undertone. "My love."

"Eh?"

"You _were_ here as Howe's prisoner for three days."

Alistair's face contorted as his mouth formed the name of the man who had ultimately superseded Loghain on his list of enemies. Flora thought for a moment, her eyes fixed on the stone steps as she plodded determinedly up them one at a time.

"No-oo," she said slowly after a moment, brow furrowing. "When I remember being here, the memories – they're not very clear. Even though it only happened a few months ago. It's like… they're blurred. The colours are diluted, I can't remember what people said. I can't remember how I _felt_."

As Flora spoke, she realised that this obscuring of her memories was most likely the work of her spirits.

_They took the sharp edges from the memories of my imprisonment, so that I couldn't cut myself on them later._

At this poignant manifestation of how her spirits had looked out for her well-being, Flora felt hot tears starting to well beneath her lashes. Not wanting to proceed up the steps with blurred vision, she stopped and rubbed her sleeve roughly over her eyes. Alistair reflexively reached out to embrace her, his eyes bruised with concern.

"My love, if you want to leave, just say the word," he murmured, smoothing a tender palm over her tousled head. "We don't have to stay here a moment longer."

"No, I'm fine to stay," Flora replied, blinking back her tears fiercely. "Anyway, they're giving us _lunch_. I don't want to miss that!"

Alistair smiled down at her, a touch wistfully.

"Alright, sweetheart."

The master mason showed them into the officers' quarters, a series of austere stone chambers with little to distinguish them from the barracks below. He led them through a sitting area missing most of its furniture, then into a dining room that Flora vaguely recognised. The windowless chamber was lit by torches set in recesses along the wall; and underfoot there was a distinctive black and white tiled pattern set into the floor.

Flora fought her subconscious for the memory – her spirits had done an exceedingly efficient job of obscuring her days spent as Howe's prisoner. While she searched the recesses of her mind, they took their seats at the long table in the centre of the room. A pair of Leonas Bryland's retainers had brought out a cauldron of meat stew and a vegetable pottage for Flora, along with hunks of crusty bread and salty cheese.

"You can barely tell that the Darkspawn overran this place," Leliana said admiringly to the master mason, who flushed and mumbled something incoherent under his breath. "It's very impressive."

"Took _weeks _to get rid of the smell," the mason replied, with a curl of the lip. "We had to build a fire in every room and burnt all the herbs we could lay our hands on. Their stench was worse than an open privy in summer."

Leliana did not appreciate such graphic detail during their meal; but politeness overruled her distaste and she shot a sweet smile at the man.

"You've all done an excellent job, then. It's fortunate that the General was able to spare some troops to assist with the repairs."

Leonas paused in his conversation with Alistair to let out a small, nonchalant grunt. He was gripping a piece of stew-soaked bread awkwardly in his maimed hand – fifty years of using five fingers had left him ill-prepared for having only three. The two men were busy discussing the guards that would be accompanying the royal progress.

Alistair listened closely to the details, asking the occasional question in-between ladling stew into his mouth. Beside him, Flora suddenly dropped her spoon onto the table with a clatter; eyes widening.

"I _remember _being here before," she breathed, swivelling her pale gaze to where Alistair sat at the head of the table. "Arl Howe made me come and eat dinner with him. He was sitting where _you _were sitting!"

Alistair's resulting expression was one of mingled alarm and disgust; he looked almost as though he wanted to jump out of the seat immediately. The rest of the table had fallen attentively quiet – Flora rarely spoke about what had happened to her during her three days as Howe's prisoner. They knew that the treacherous arl had not gone so far as to _assault_ her, but the rest of her time in Fort Drakon remained a mystery.

Flora sought to clarify the image in her own mind, holding it up to the light of her memory.

"I was pretending to be Tranquil," she continued slowly, staring unseeing at the hunk of ragged bread on the plate before her. "I had to – I think I had to serve the food? Or the wine, I can't remember."

Flora was fascinated by the gradual emergence of the memory- she had a firm grasp on the image now, and was tugging it from her subconscious like a loose strand of wool from a fraying jumper.

_He made me sit on his knee while he ate. I wasn't allowed to eat anything, even though my stomach was rumbling. I remember thinking how horribly wrong his hand looked on my leg; the knuckles bony and the skin covered with liver-spots._

Seeing Alistair's face, Flora decided not to mention that particular part of her memory.

"Then Loghain came in through the door – _that _door over there – and I wanted to _kill _him," she said instead, her eyes distant as she remembered the surge of blind rage that had swelled in her stomach on seeing the traitorous general. "But I couldn't react, obviously. Or they'd know I wasn't really Tranquil."

"How did Mac Tir react on seeing you?" Eamon asked softly, his pale green Guerrin stare focused unblinking on her thoughtful face.

Flora's brow creased as she pulled the memory out further; examining it like a piece of clouded sea-glass extracted from a rock pool.

"Loghain was angry with Howe," she said, slowly. "He said that illegally Tranquilising me was… it was a _waste_, and not a Fereldan thing to do. He was really furious, actually. And then he laughed when a servant came in and said that Howe's estate had been burnt down. Told Howe that he'd brought it on himself."

A silent Alistair shifted in his seat – wishing fervently that he could move elsewhere than the vacated chair of Rendon Howe – and reached out for Flora's hand under the table. Flora took it, entwining their fingers and squeezing their palms tightly together.

_I'm not going to probe my mind anymore, _she thought determinedly to herself. _My spirits obscured those memories for a reason. What's that old expression?_

_Let sleeping Mabari lie._

"As much as it was satisfying to see Howe's head broken apart like an egg," Leonas commented drily, picking up his abandoned spoon. "I wouldn't have minded getting my hands on him. Both for his kidnapping of you, lass, and for what he did to your parents. I'd known Bryce for thirty years."

Flora bit into a hunk of bread and considered for a moment whether she would have wanted Howe to be tortured.

_He killed my parents; which I'm outraged about more on principle – I don't remember enough about them to take it personally. He murdered my nephew – Fergus' son. He sent assassins after me and Alistair._

_Ooh, we did end up meeting Zevran as a result of that, though. So, not all bad._

_Would I have countenanced torture for him?_

_No. Death, yes. Even a messy death – which is what I ended up giving him. But not torture._

She glanced sideways, noticing that a slightly pale Alistair had put down his spoon. Feeling guilty for putting her best friend off his lunch – he always went very quiet whenever Howe was mentioned – she gave his fingers a squeeze. He swallowed and dutifully returned the pressure, but his spoon remained on the table for the remainder of the meal.

After lunch, the tour of the refurbished Fort Drakon continued. The master mason led them around the upper quarters, pointing out freshly plastered strategy rooms, holding cells and officers' residences. Conscious of her best friend - who was still brooding on thoughts of Howe - Flora did not point out the arl's bedchamber. She had spent a single, restless night in Howe's bed, fortunately without Howe alongside her. Later, Flora had learnt that Loghain had summoned the arl to the Royal palace and kept him there for countless hours on the pretence of a meeting.

"Look at the thickness of these walls," Leliana said admiringly, dragging her fingertips across one particular half-metre wide section. "During the Avvar rebellion in the Steel Age, the warlord Balak laid siege to this place, with little success. Isn't there an old saying, Arl Leonas: _if one wishes to take Denerim, one must first take Fort Drakon?"_

Leonas gave a grunt of assent; he had indeed heard of this traditional adage.

They had come to a pause at the foot of yet another circular staircase, plain and nondescript. There was nothing to distinguish it from previous ones they had taken, yet Flora's mind gave a sudden twinge of recognition. Beside her, Alistair stiffened; his hand clutching hers several degrees tighter.

"We've managed to repair the western spire," the master mason said, hesitantly. "The lower turret is still scaffolded, but it'll look good as new once we're done. But… this tower, we've not been able to make much headway on."

"Is it badly damaged?" Eamon asked, casting an eye up at the nondescript stone steps. "It seems reasonably intact from within."

"Oh, there's no _internal _damage, my lord," the mason hastened to explain. "It's… the roof. It's – well."

Alistair shot a sideways glance at Flora, who was shifting from foot to foot with nervous curiosity. Leliana had also fallen uncharacteristically quiet, her pale blue gaze swinging towards them. All three were fully aware of this particular tower's significance.

_This is where the Blight was stopped. This was where the Archdemon was slain._

"It'll be easier if I show you, my lord," continued the mason, with a slightly helpless shrug. "If you'll follow me."

Flora, conscious both of her sore knee and heavy stomach, once again dropped back to the rear of the party. Alistair reached out to take her elbow, the movement mindless; his face cast in a shadow of reminiscence. He didn't speak until they were halfway up the spiralling steps, and even then his voice was quiet and hollow in tone.

"The worst moment of my life was on this rooftop, Flo."

Flora's heart gave a little lurch; she knew full well what he was referring to. Coming to a halt on the narrow twist of the shadowed stairs, she reached out to put her hand on his arm, her eyes anxiously searching his face.

"Don't come up," she said, impulsively. "I'll say you've got indigestion."

Alistair laughed, but there was no humour in the sound.

"Might as well see if the place looks like it does in my nightmares," he replied, the words bleak and hollow. "At least it'll make them more accurate in the future."

They climbed the rest of the steps hand-in-hand, with Flora silently deciding that she was not going to release her husband's fingers until they were safely back inside. The stairs above them began to lighten in small increments as they approached the top of the tower, and then they heard Eamon's astounded voice filtering down towards them.

"_Maker's Breath!"_

Then followed a wry reply from Loghain: "I take it you haven't been up here before. It's certainly a… a _sight, _isn't it?"

Alistair swallowed, and felt Flora's fingers tighten around his own. Taking a deep breath, he lifted his chin and led her around the last sharp twist of the steps. Sunlight met them at the top from the open doorway, momentarily dazzling.

Once they had both recovered their eyesight, the former Wardens stepped out onto the rooftop where the Fifth Blight had been officially ended.

"We weren't sure whether to try and… repair it," the master mason was saying, his expression indicating the impossibility of this task. "Or demolish it. Or keep it as some sort of monument."

Flora, whose memories of this rooftop were shrouded in a fog of war, gazed about her in astonishment, mind prickling with small pinpoints of recognition.

The rooftop was divided in half, as neatly as though some vast line tool had been used to delineate one side from the other. The half closest to the door appeared relatively unscathed – the flagstones were clean and intact, the battlement walls had little visible sign of damage. There was even a flagpole still standing incongruously in one corner, though its accompanying banner had been lost.

The other side of the rooftop appeared like something from a lyrium-dream, warped and distorted beyond recognition. The stone of the rooftop – tiles, basalt and mortar – had been contorted into high, jagged peaks; like the sea frozen at the peak of a storm. Most of the flagstones had not survived, they were either caught up in the alien crests, or shattered beyond recognition. The landscape was blackened, charred to the very bones of the building below.

Throughout the centre of this chaotic, scorched terrain, a single channel of clean and unbroken tile remained. This narrow path – which originated from the undamaged half of the roof – cut a swathe though the contorted remains.

Flora stared at it, feeling her heartbeat escalate rapidly in her chest.

_Was that me? I don't remember. I don't remember anything that happened up here after we came through the door._

"That was you,_ ma petite," _Leliana said quietly, reading Flora's thoughts on her face. "I know you don't recall it. The Archdemon was in that corner, there. You brought up your barrier to keep us from stopping you. And then you went towards it."

_Everyone at the Circle thought I was defective; since all I could do was heal and shield. They felt sorry for me for four years._

_But my healing could cure the taint, and my shield could withstand an Archdemon's flame._

_I was only able to do two things, but – thanks to my spirits – I did them quite well._

"Maker's Breath," repeated Eamon, once again. He strode over to the edge of the warped stone and placed a hand against it, feeling the mutated rock beneath his hand. "That's harder than bloody silverite."

"Our workers haven't been able to make a dent in it," confirmed the master mason, a frown embedded in his forehead. "So repairs on this tower have been delayed."

As the others went to explore the strange landscape, Alistair stood rigidly in place; staring fixedly ahead like a blind man in unfamiliar surroundings. There was a distinct grey undertone to his handsome face, and Flora could see a muscle in his jaw trembling.

"Lo, you can go and have a look as well if you want," he said, through gritted teeth. "I'm sure it's… fascinating. I'll just stay over here."

"I don't care about seeing it," Flora replied placidly, turning her back on the spot where the Fifth Blight had been brought to an end. "This is a _much_ nicer view, over here."

She led him to the battlements that faced out over the city. Denerim lay spread out below them, a collection of wood and stone rooftops, punctuated by lofty Chantry spires. Although they were too high up to make out any detail, an almost-perceptible _hum _of activity rose from the buildings; a murmur of commerce, and craftsmanship, and people going about their daily business. The market square was now crammed with stalls, whereas a month ago, it had been only a quarter-full. There were trade ships queuing up in the wide mouth of the estuary, waiting to be guided in by pilot vessels. At first, Alistair stared unseeingly down at the sprawling city, still preoccupied with the traumatic events that had transpired on the rooftop behind him.

Gradually – in slow increments – his attention was caught by the activity and energy of Ferelden's capital. His gaze moved from the estuary, to the marketplace; then across to a slender caravan of traders waiting to be admitted at the northern gate. He was able to make out a half-dozen carts laden with goods, covered with canvas to protect them from the unpredictable Fereldan summer.

Faced with this bustling, thriving city below, Alistair couldn't help but admire the resilience that ran in Denerim's veins. With a sudden surge of pride, he leaned forward and pointed out one of the ships to Flora; a tall vessel with mulberry-coloured pennants.

"That's from Rialto, one of Denerim's old trading partners – Eamon told me that they'd lifted the embargo!" he said suddenly, eyes lighting with recognition. "Zev will be pleased, they're our main importer of Antivan wine. He can stock up before the progress."

Flora smiled up at her best friend, not as well versed as he in vexillology. Alistair leaned forward on the battlements and extended a finger towards the market square, his face alight.

"And Eamon said the other day that there were too many stalls to fit within the marketplace. Look, Flo – he was right! Can you see the stalls running down that road there, just by the chapel? We might have to extend the size of the market square."

Flora beamed, and then felt the baby give a particularly enthusiastic wriggle within her belly. She reached down to rub the heel of her hand over the woollen mound; Alistair saw the movement from the corner of his eye and drew her into his arms, cradling the weight of the ripe curve within his palm.

"My love," he breathed and Flora was relieved to see the earlier shadow lifted from his handsome, tawny face. "Have I shown you how much I adore you today?"

"Not since we broke our fast," she replied solemnly and Alistair grinned, lifting a hand to gently cup one side of her face.

"Then let me rectify that _immediately,"_ he murmured, bending his head to kiss her.

Some time later, Eamon had made his throat hoarse by issuing several pointed coughs; none of which had succeeded in drawing Alistair's attention. The arl shot a slightly pleading look at Leliana, who had far fewer reservations about interrupting the enamoured newlyweds.

The bard dutifully sailed across the flagstones and came to a halt just behind the preoccupied Alistair. Moments later, she unleashed a shriek of banshee-like tone and volume towards the back of his head.

"_ALISTAAAIR!"_

Alistair, eyes bulging, hastily released a dazed-looking Flora and turned to face Leliana.

"Andraste's flaming posterior," he said, and promptly received a glare for such blasphemy. "What is it?"

"The master mason needs a decision, Alistair," Eamon interjected, hastily. "What do you want to happen to this tower? It could be demolished, they could attempt to build over the damage, or - "

"Leave it as a monument," Alistair replied, his voice now clear and steady. "A testament to my wife's bravery, and to… to Fereldan fortitude."

Leliana bestowed him with a benevolent look of approval, and Eamon hid a small smile.

"That sounds good to me, son. Right – I think it's about time that we returned to the palace."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Vexillology is the study of flags! What a pretentious word, I had to look it up, lol.
> 
> I liked this chapter because Fort Drakon was the location of some of the grimmest moments in the whole original story, and it has a lot of bad memories for both Alistair and Flora. Fortunately for Flora, her spirits obliterated or blurred a lot of these bad memories before they departed; but they're still fresh and painful for poor old Alistair!
> 
> Originally, once they got onto the rooftop where the Archdemon was slain, I was going to have them recall the slaying of the Archdemon, and then I actually changed my mind! Instead of dwelling on the past, they go and look out at the revitalised Denerim; and that's the whole point of this sequel, moving on and rebuilding.


	76. The Mabari Of Ferelden

During their return journey to the castle, Alistair cheered up immensely; delighted at the prospect of the upcoming visit to the royal kennels. If he had not been bearing his wife on the saddle before him, he would have spurred his horse at breakneck pace up through the palace grounds. To compensate for the delay that Flora's presence caused, Alistair chattered excitedly about various Mabari hounds he remembered from his childhood at Redcliffe Castle. Flora leaned back against his chest, fiddling idly with the laces of her tunic as she listened.

"Did I ever tell you my favourite story about Gelert the Mabari, my love?" he asked her as they crossed into the palace grounds, starting on the gentle incline that led up to the forecourt of the castle. "Teagan told me this one when I was a boy."

Flora shook her head, feeling Alistair take a deep breath behind her.

"King Calenhad had a whole pack of Mabari, but his favourite hound was named Gelert. Gelert was a true war-dog, who had fought alongside the king in many battles against Ferelden's enemies."

Flora listened to the slow, nuanced drawl of her best friend's voice, running her fingers up and down his sleeve.

"One night, Calenhad came back from a long day of hunting, and went up to his infant son's nursery. The babe was vanished, and Gelert's muzzle was covered with blood."

She twisted in the saddle to turn appalled eyes on Alistair; he hastened on with the story.

"Calenhad believed that Gelert had attacked the child, and so he thrust his blade straight into the dog's heart. The Mabari died with a little yelp, collapsing at his master's feet."

"This does _not_ sound like a suitable story to tell a child! Bann Teagan had better not tell this one to _our _baby."

"Then," Alistair continued, earnestly. "Calenhad heard a little cry, coming from near his feet. He bent down and saw his son, unharmed, hidden beneath the cradle. A dead wolf lay alongside the child, the teethmarks of a Mabari sunk into its neck."

"The wolf had tried to eat the baby?" Flora whispered, with eyes wide and tremulous. Alistair nodded, cradling the swell of her stomach in the broad palm of his hand.

"Yes, and Gelert came to the child's rescue. Anyway, Calenhad was so stricken at what he had done – and haunted by the Mabari's last pitiful yelp – that he didn't smile again until his dying day; when he told his council that he was not afraid of death, because Gelert would be waiting to greet him at the Maker's side. Such is the loyalty of the Mabari."

Flora, afflicted both by hormonal imbalance and the sadness of the story, proceeded to burst into tears. Alistair, half-guilty and half-laughing, tried to comfort her as best he could while perched on a saddle with only one arm free.

"Baby, it's just a legend- "

"_He killed his do-o-o-g! HIS DOG!"_

"I don't even know if there's any truth in it!"

"_And the dog had saved the baby, waaah- "_

The imposing face of the Royal Palace rose up before them, stark and brutally intimidating; almost as solid in its construction as Fort Drakon. The horses came to a halt on the gravel, stable boys scampering out immediately from a nearby alcove.

Eamon dismounted with surprising agility for a man of his years, silvery eyebrows rising in mild confusion as he stared at the weeping Flora. Alistair had just lowered her gently to the gravel and she was standing motionless on the spot, still weeping profusely. It was a pitiful sight; especially in contrast to her usual public stoicism.

"Alistair, what have you said to your brand new wife to upset her?" the arl chastised, while a tutting Leliana offered Alistair her own lace-edged handkerchief. "Florence, what's the matter?"

"He _murdered_ his Mabari!" snivelled back Flora, as Alistair dabbed tenderly at her wet cheeks with the silken square. "He murdered his Mabari in cold… _in cold blood!"_

"What?" replied Eamon, thoroughly confused. "Who did?"

"Because he thought the Mabari ate the baby," she continued, melodramatically. _"But it wasn't true! The Mabari saved the baby!"_

"I told her the story of Gelert," Alistair hastened to explain, anchoring his wife's fingers within his own and kissing her knuckles. "Sorry, sweetheart. I didn't realise you'd take it – well. Take it to heart so much."

"The story of _Gelert?" _repeated Leliana, who was naturally familiar with this old Fereldan legend. "That's not really a suitable story to tell an expectant mother."

Flora wiped her nose on her sleeve, _Mairyn's Star _flashing as the sun reflected off its curved, opalescent face.

There was a scene of gentle chaos inside the entrance hall – the moth-eaten blue carpet was being taken up in preparation for a new, plush replacement. Servants were rolling it from different ends, dust was flying up in plumes and the bellowed instructions of Guillaume could barely be heard above the sneezing.

Fergus was stood at the side of the hall, leaning against one of the hearths and eyeing the proceedings with mild alarm. As Alistair and Flora joined him, the teyrn started to make a comment on the disarray, and then noticed his sister's blotchy, tear-stained cheeks.

"Floss! Are you alright?" He reached out to touch her arm, bluish grey eyes darkening in concern.

As Flora nodded mutedly – she did not quite trust herself to speak yet – Alistair explained the cause of her distress.

"Oh!" said Fergus, once the king had clarified. "Oh, _Gelert _is a great story. Nanny used to tell it to Finn and I at bedtime. You know, there's a rumour that Calenhad built a memorial to his Mabari somewhere in the Bannorn, and buried half of his wealth within it to show his gratitude to the hound. The knights used to joke about trying to find it."

As he spoke, the teyrn was guiding them towards the palace kennels. Other Royal residences within Thedas housed their hunting dogs either in or near the stables; keeping them well away from the splendour of their own living quarters. Ferelden, as one would expect, was a living contradiction of this convention. Rather than being located in an outbuilding on the palace grounds, the royal kennels were housed within the castle itself. They were situated on the ground floor not far from the kitchens, in a large, hearth-lit chamber which had easy access to the gardens. Four servants were employed to look after the needs of the twenty or so Mabari who dwelt within the kennels. The dogs themselves were given free rein to wander about the palace; many of them chose to made circuits around the noble quarters, begging for scraps.

About half the Mabari were present within the chamber when king, queen and teyrn arrived. They immediately crowded about the doorway, yapping excitedly and competing to lick Alistair's hand. Although they had only recently been introduced to this new Theirin, the perceptive hounds could recognise his similarity to Cailan – and the older ones saw the likeness with Maric. They were gentler with Flora, sensing that she was a little wary of them and intelligent enough to discern that she was bearing young.

As Alistair squatted down to ruffle fur and tug delightedly on ears, Flora reached out a tentative hand and patted a grey-spotted hound on the head. The bitch gave a little whine and licked her fingers gently; gazing up at Flora with calm, pale blue eyes that incongruously reminded her of Wynne.

"How's my Saela?"

Fergus directed his question to the kennelmaster, who had just emerged from an adjacent chamber. The man brightened, bowing perfunctorily towards king and queen before beckoning for them to follow.

"Mother and pups are doing well. Poor bitch is exhausted – took her nearly twelve hours to whelp them all."

Flora blanched – she was aiming for a personal labour time of approximately _twenty minutes, _and hearing stories of other creatures taking the length of a Chantry _vigil-candle _was not very reassuring.

The kennel master led them over to a heap of coarse woollen blankets in a quiet corner of the room. Saela – Jethro's litter-mate – lay prostrate and replete alongside the wall, with eight blind, squirming creatures nestled into her belly. The bitch opened wary eyes to see who was approaching; on spotting Fergus, she let out a tired whine of delight.

The teyrn crouched down beside Saela, extending his fingers for her to lick before rubbing the top of her head, affectionately.

"Poor old girl," he murmured, fondling one of her ears between finger and thumb. "Twelve hours is a long time for a whelping."

The king crouched down beside Fergus, scratching the bitch's neck with gentle fingers.

"Who's a good girl?" he cooed, and the Mabari gave a little yap in response. "Sounds like you've had a long night."

"Hey, little sister. You and Saela have something in common," Fergus said over his shoulder as Flora was brought a stool to sit upon by the hovering kennel-master.

Flora lowered herself onto it, eyeing her brother warily.

"Eh?"

Fergus grinned at her, momentarily distracted. "_'Eh' _– you're such a northerner, Flossie. Anyway, both you and Saela went into the final battle against the Darkspawn while heavy with pup. Although we all _knew _about Saela."

Both king and teyrn shot Flora simultaneous looks of reprimand, before turning back to the bitch.

"They all look healthy," Alistair said in an aside to Fergus, eyeing the plump, squirming bodies of the pups as they clawed their way blindly through the nest of blankets. "Unusual for there to be no runt in a litter this size."

Fergus nodded, reaching down to nudge one squirming creature onto its side to show off its rounded belly.

"This is Saela's third litter for the Couslands – probably her last – and she's always delivered strong pups. She's a good girl."

Saela gave a little bark of approval, eyeing Fergus appreciatively.

"I want the strongest two for my Flora," Alistair went on, earnestly. "Hounds that will _brutally savage_ the manhood from anyone who even _thinks _an ill thought in her presence."

Flora eyed the wriggling bundles of fur, trying to envision them lunging, teeth bared, towards the groin of an attacker. Fergus, who had been raising Mabari in the Highever kennels since he was a boy, had a breeder's eye for assessing a dog's potential. He had already identified two pups as the strongest in the litter; now, he reached down and plucked up one fat, snuffling creature from its siblings.

"They're both bitches," Fergus said, passing the wriggling pup to Alistair before scooping up a second. "Good pink gums, larger than their litter-mates. Active, and curious about their surroundings at only a day old."

Alistair, who was trying to hide how delighted he was, stroked the soft bellies of each pup as he held them in his arms. Still blind, they were letting out little squeaks of alarm at being separated from their mother.

"Here, my love. Take them."

Gently, the king lowered the newborn pups to Flora, placing them on the bulge of her stomach as she sat on the stool. Unseeing, they began to crawl over the plump mound; their motions clumsy and unpractised. Maternal instinct surging, Flora gathered them up to her breast and held them there; not wanting them to fall. One was a tawny gold, the other a soft, silvery grey, and she could feel their muscle beneath the downy fur.

They wriggled for a moment, their bodies firm and velvety, and then settled down against the warmth of her chest. One of them licked the underside of her chin, and the other followed suit.

Alistair was beaming proudly down at her – he was aware that Flora was not used to being in such close proximity with Mabari.

"Never mind us standing in the Landsmeet chamber dressed up and fancified," he murmured, huskily. "I'd prefer a painting of you sat there with those pups, darling. I don't think I've ever seen a nicer sight."

Flora smiled at him, leaning back and trying not to move as one of the pups started to make an ambitious climb up the slope of her neck. Fergus grinned down at his sister, continuing to scratch Saela behind the ears.

"While you're both away on progress, I'll take the whole family up to Highever and keep them with me. Once they're a few weeks older, I'll start introducing them to your scent; Alistair has already given me some of your old nightclothes."

Alistair crouched down and ruffled Saela's speckled fur affectionately, and the dog let out a little whine of pleasure.

"Your pups have been chosen for an important job," he told the dam, solemnly. "They're going to protect the queen of Ferelden, _and _the new heir, when it comes."

Saela gave a proud little yap and Alistair beamed, patting her hindquarters gently.

"Floss, what do you want to call them?" Fergus asked, watching his sister nuzzle her face against the soft heads of the puppies. "I'll start using their names so they get used to them."

"Cod," said Flora immediately, ducking her chin towards the grey-furred pup. "And Lobster."

This second name was directed towards the one with the tawny coat. Fergus struggled to keep a straight face as he envisioned himself yelling _Cod! _and _Lobster! _across the training yard. However, he managed to bite back his laugh and gave a little nod.

"As you wish, petal. Cod and Lobster it is."

Flora pressed an impulsive kiss to each pup's small head, suddenly wondering _why_ she had been so nervous at the prospect of this. Her own baby, annoyed at being ignored in favour of the new arrivals, gave a sudden, vigorous squirm and swung it's foot into her kidney.

As Fergus reached out to take little Cod and Lobster from their new mistress' breast; Flora dropped a hand and patted her stomach.

"Don't get jealous," she said firmly, and felt the baby wriggle in response to her voice. "I haven't forgotten about you, tadpole."

With a final look down at the pups as they fought for position at Saela's teat – Cod and Lobster naturally asserting dominance – king, queen and teyrn made their way out of the royal kennels.

* * *

The rest of the packing and preparations for the progress took up the remainder of the afternoon and much of the evening, dinner only a brief respite from the activity. Although they would be travelling reasonably light, with only a handful of carts; it was surprising how long it took to provision and organise supplies for an eight-week journey. They did not know the condition of the land for the first half of their travels – both South Reach and Lothering had been overrun by Darkspawn – and so sufficient food rations needed to be brought.

Once the carts were readied for tomorrow's departure, Fergus issued an open invitation for several rounds of Wicked Grace in the Cousland quarters. Teagan lost a great deal of coin to Finian; Eamon, who had years of experience to counter Finian's Orlesian training, promptly won it back.

Alistair tried, unsuccessfully, to teach Flora how to play chess. Flora – who was even worse at chess than she was at cards - kept laughing, making illegal moves, and stealing his pieces when he wasn't looking. Eventually, the king gave up and decided to take his cackling wife to bed instead; standing up and leading her next door with a firm grip.

Some time later, they lay tangled beneath the furs on the bed, bare-skinned and sweaty, still conjoined as they recovered from their exertions. Alistair wrapped his arms around his wife from behind, relishing the sensation of her warm, solid body against his own. He was unable to resist several more surreptitious, slow thrusts underneath the cover of the bearskin even as a servant entered discreetly to add more logs to the hearth. She let out a satisfying little squeak, pressing her mouth against her arm to muffle the sound.

However, once the door had closed, Flora squirmed and wriggled free from Alistair's clutches; kicking the furs away with a flailing foot.

"I'm so _hot,"_ she bemoaned, patting her fingers against her cheeks and listening to the wet sound of her own sweaty face. "I'm hotter than an Antivan pepper."

The king clambered out of bed with limbs still sated and clumsy. He went to the window, unlatching the lock and pushing gently at the frame; letting in a gust of oceanic air.

"Come and sit here, baby."

Flora heaved herself out of bed with some effort, simultaneously wondering how immobile she was going to be in two months' time.

_This baby is already weighing me down like a cartload of basalt._

_I'll have to roll everywhere, or crawl around like a crab._

Banishing this grim prospect from her mind, Flora wandered across the flagstones and joined her new husband on the cushioned bench; turning her face towards the open window with a little sigh of pleasure.

"I think we were quite _quiet _that time," she said hopefully, inhaling a deep lungful of salty air. "Or at least, Finian didn't bang on the wall."

"I know you were being quiet, sweetheart! I thought you'd actually fallen asleep at one point. Wait, you didn't _really _fall asleep, did you?"

"Nooo!"

In readiness for their upcoming accommodation under canvas, both former Wardens had attempted to be as stealthy as possible in their lovemaking. This had been accomplished with limited success – Finian had indeed not banged on the wall, but only because those remaining in the Cousland quarters had rapidly relocated to Eamon's chamber after Alistair had led Flora out, aware of what was shortly going to follow.

Alistair laughed, reaching out a palm still damp with perspiration to cradle her flushed cheek. Flora smiled at him, sleepy and satiated, her hair in a disarray of dark crimson whorls and tangles.

"Maker's Breath, my love," he murmured, pressing the ball of his callused thumb against the middle of her lower lip. "My lovely Lo. I'm going to have to kiss you _once_ more before we go to sleep. Just enough to last me until morning."

Flora reached up to draw him to her, their lips coming together with a soft and familiar tenderness. Alistair did not seek to deepen the kiss straight away, but brushed a series of feathery caresses across her mouth; gently testing the fullness of her lower lip with his teeth before tracing the upper lip with the tip of his tongue. Only once he had lavished both lips in affection did he seek to part them, his tongue teasing its way into the sweet, familiar warmth of her mouth.

She yielded to him immediately, feeling him draw the air from her throat with the rich intensity of the kiss. The rest of the chamber faded away into a faded, fire-lit blur; her senses focusing themselves entirely on the man kissing her as though they were about to be parted for a lifetime. Her body bent itself towards him like a bow and somehow she ended up in his lap with her bare legs around his waist; their mouths working each other with increasing, desire-fuelled intensity.

It was the king that reluctantly broke it off, forcing himself to withdraw in a slight daze, eyes unseeing and thoughts clouded.

"You need to rest, my darling," Alistair croaked, made hoarse from the richness of their kiss. "We can't be up for hours. It's a long day on the road tomorrow."

Flora knew that he was right, her rational mind struggling with the urges of her lust fuelled body. She knew from experience that if she straddled him at that moment, he would not be able to resist. Instead, she retreated, slithering back down on the window bench.

"Mm," she whispered back in reluctant agreement. "Alright."

Alistair leaned over and pressed a chaste kiss to the centre of her forehead. Clambering to his feet, he lifted her up in his arms as she yawned; curling an arm around his neck.

"Come on, _sweet wife," _he said, with the same affectionate tone that he once used when calling her _sister-warden. _"Let's try and get a few hours of sleep, eh?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think a twenty minute labour might be slightly wishful thinking, Flo. Lol!
> 
> The story of Gelert is based on a really famous (and depressing) Welsh story, about the Welsh prince Llywelyn and his loyal hound, Gelert. There's a little village in Snowdonia (in the northern part of the country) called Beddgelert, which literally means Gelert's grave. We've got quite a lot of stories about legendary dogs in Welsh folklore (aaah why am I not a Welsh historian? Opportunity missed!) and they remind me a lot of the Mabari of Ferelden.
> 
> Introducing COD AND LOBSTER, who will be the main Mabari guardians of Flo and unnamed Royal baby!


	77. The Journey Begins

The morning's sky held a promise of fine weather; the sun set against a clear and unbroken expanse of pale blue. It was not exceptionally warm – there was a faint hint of a chilly breeze blowing west from the ocean – but it was good conditions for journeying.

The party gathered on the gravel forecourt of the palace in a tangle of horses, Mabari and covered carts; stable-boys and retainers scampered around to fetch last minute items. Bann Reginalda would be accompanying them as far as her own bannorn of White River and she was already perched on the saddle, impatient for the off. Eamon, who would be acting regent while Alistair was on progress, drew the king aside for a few last-minute discussions. Zevran and Wynne were waiting with the air of experienced travellers; their saddlebags already packed.

As Alistair was murmuring quietly to Eamon, Flora was engaged in several surprisingly traumatic farewells. Her brothers - whom she had only recently been reunited with – each had their own territories to return to.

Fergus needed to head north to take over his father's old domain. Highever, as the largest and most prosperous teyrnir – was a fundamental facet of the Fereldan economy, and needed to be carefully managed. Fergus was not particularly looking forward to residing alone in the vast, empty castle of Highever, with only retainers and the ghosts of his family for company. He was grimly resolved to throw himself into being teyrn; to spend most of his time inspecting the mines, and visiting the string of little villages within his territory.

Finian, as the newly invested Arl of Amaranthine, would also need to settle into his new estate. He would keep an eye on the Wardens at Vigil's Keep, updating Alistair frequently via letter. Finian also had several quietly ambitious plans of his own – to found a university within Ferelden to rival the one within Orlais. Amaranthine needed another source of income other than its port – many of its inhabitants had fled in advance of the impending Blight – and an institute of higher education would attract wealth and international influence.

The three siblings - all that remained of Bryce Cousland's family - clung to each other on the gravel forecourt before the palace. Fergus, prior to the events of the Blight, had not seen his brother for the four years that Finian had spent in Val Royeaux, and his sister for the _fourteen _since she had been smuggled out of Highever. The teyrn now found it hard to envision life without seeing his brother and sister every day.

"I'll see you in six weeks or so," Flora whispered, having already found out the time that it would take for their journey to reach Highever and Amaranthine. "Will you write to me? Using _big_ letters, not joined up together, please."

Both brothers promised that they would write – in a hand that she could read - embracing their rediscovered little sister as tightly as they dared.

"You're going to be as big as Fort Drakon," Finian said cheerfully, pecking Flora on the cheek before squatting down and patting her stomach. "Goodbye for now, niece or nephew. You'll be almost ready to come out the next time I see your mama again!"

Meanwhile, an anxious Fergus had ventured across to Alistair; slightly self-conscious but earnest in his entreaty.

"Finian and Florence are all that's left of my family now," he muttered, keeping his voice low beneath the excited chatter of the others. "Please look after my sister on the road. There are still Darkspawn out there, and bandits."

Alistair was about to retort that Flora was his _wife _and his best friend in the entire world, that he was not planning to take his eyes from her for a second longer than was necessary - then he noticed the hollowness in Fergus' cheeks; the spectre of a murdered wife and child hovering in his blue-grey irises.

"I swear to the Maker," the king said quietly instead, reaching out to grip Fergus' elbow. "Not a single hair on her head will come to any harm."

As Alistair and Fergus conferred with their heads together, Flora was faced with an even more distressing parting. Leliana had been the first of their companions to freely join them during the Blight; she had accompanied their travels from the early days in Lothering, she had journeyed with them to Redcliffe and to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. At South Reach, she had transcribed Flora's summons to the three armies; keeping their assembly a secret until it was revealed at the Landsmeet. She had played a fundamental role in helping Flora look the part of first _Lady Cousland_ and then _Queen of Ferelden;_ and had even willingly imprisoned herself in Revanloch Monastery for a month at Flora's side.

After breaking her fast in the Cousland quarters, Flora had gone straight down to see the bard; bursting through Leliana's bedchamber door and then – uncharacteristically – bursting into tears. Leliana had scolded her for such emotional display, while simultaneously mopping up her cheeks with a silk handkerchief.

"Florence," she had chided with mingled exasperation and affection, brow furrowed. "Pull yourself together, _cherie. _You are soaking my chiffon gown."

"But how can I be Lady Cousland without you?" bemoaned Flora, her voice muffled as she spoke directly into Leliana's ample chest. "How can I be _queen_ without you? You've always been there to help me."

"Nonsense," replied Leliana briskly, extracting Flora and shooting her a stern, Wynne-like look. "Your kind heart and brave spirit is what makes you _Florence Cousland, queen of Ferelden._ All I ever did was dress up the outside."

Now that they were on the palace forecourt and the moment of parting was near, Flora was doing her best to maintain a stoic expression; managing to embrace Leliana and kiss her on the cheek without breaking down again. She still didn't quite trust herself to _speak,_ so nodded mutedly in response to Leliana's issued instructions.

"I've labelled two clothing bags with _travelling_ and _formal _– get someone to read it for you if you aren't sure," the bard said briskly, stepping back and giving an encouraging nod. "And I've packed up all the herbal teas that the midwife left for you."

Flora let out a little grunt of thanks, then shuffled forwards to put her arms around Leliana one final time.

"_Mercy," _she whispered, trying her best to mimic her friend's Orlesian intonation. "For everything."

Leliana laughed; pale blue eyes warm with affection.

"No need to say _merci, ma crevette. _I will see you in eight weeks, _hm?"_

Flora nodded, taking a deep gulp of air.

Alistair, who had just exchanged a final few words with the chief steward, received the reins of his usual bay mare. After checking the horse's hooves and fetlocks with a quick, experienced eye, he led the mare across the gravel towards Flora.

"Ready to leave, my love?"

Flora swept her gaze once more across the faces of her brothers, Leliana and Leonas Bryland – who had also come to see them off – and gave a small, wordless nod. With exceptional care, Alistair gripped her by the hips and hoisted her up onto the saddle; making sure she was seated securely before removing his steadying hand.

As the king planted a foot in the stirrup and swung himself up effortlessly behind her, Flora was momentarily distracted.

"Do you think you'll still be able to lift me up onto the saddle by Kingsway?" she asked, settling back against Alistair's chest as he reached around her for the reins. "I'm going to be _huge."_

"I'm not sure," Alistair replied, cheerfully. "If not, I'll enlist Teagan to help me. Or use a winch and pulley system."

Flora stared into space for a moment, envisioning her bloated body being hoisted into the air by some complex piece of machinery.

"I miss being my old size," she said, wistfully. "Everything takes more effort now. Even getting out of bed, and going up stairs."

Alistair brushed several wisps of hair aside and pressed a sympathetic kiss to the back of her neck.

"Not much longer, darling. Less than three months."

Flora privately thought that _three months _sounded the length of an Age, but remained quiet.

The sun had just reached its apex when the company departed from the castle, taking the route through the fruit gardens to exit at the rear of the palace grounds. Ser Gilmore – a loyal Cousland retainer deployed by Fergus – led the way; a map tucked away in an easily accessible saddle-bag. Teagan rode alongside him, more at ease on horseback than he was on foot. The bann was delighted to be on the road once again – he was not accustomed to extended periods of time cooped within city walls.

Alistair and Flora came next, flanked on each side by Zevran and Wynne. The elf was humming softly to himself, his quick-fire mind drifting between a number of topics: his former Crow contact in Highever, which company member he might invite to his tent that evening, and finally - the possible whereabouts of the last Howe brother. Zevran had found out through his sources that Nathaniel Howe had left Kirkwall on a ship bound for Ferelden a week prior; his current location was unknown. Zevran had promptly passed the information on to Alistair, who agonised for several days and nights about whether to inform Flora. Finally, the king decided to keep it to himself until more specific details had been uncovered, not wanting Flora to worry.

Wynne's thoughts, on the other hand, were focused on a single topic: the wellbeing of the Circle. Irving had kept her updated on the renovation of Kinloch Hold, and she was eager to see her former home with her own eyes. The memory of the upper floors seething with maleficar taint was still raw and painful to think on; she wanted to suppress it with the sight of a rejuvenated, revitalised tower.

The three cart-loads of equipment brought up the rear of the party; escorted by Leonas' choice of Royal Guard. They were not wearing the usual garb – a full suit of armour was hardly suitable for horseback – but their prominent weaponry and grim expressions would serve as deterrent for any would-be ambushers.

"On the road again, _amigos," _drawled Zevran, rousing himself from his thoughts and flashing a dazzling beam at his companions. "Aah, this reminds me of when we were travelling from South Reach to Denerim."

"Except, this time, we don't have to sneak on back-routes through the hills of the Bannorn," Alistair replied, the same thought having occurred to him. "We can take the West Road."

"And there's no Darkspawn army on our heels," chimed in Flora, sitting up straight and beaming. "It's a nice feeling to be out in the countryside _without _the Blight looming over us."

Trusting in Alistair's arms to keep her steady atop the saddle, Flora twisted as best she could from side to side to take in the view. Over her shoulder, Denerim Castle loomed on its high, defensible bluff; the crenelated turrets and Theirin heraldry just about visible. To the west, the cliff dropped sharply away into the pea-green Amaranthine Ocean, which was serene and flat as the surface of a mirror. Ahead lay the low, rolling hills of the Bannorn; an undulating dark green meander on the distant horizon.

Flora had not been intending to look to the east, but found her eyes drawn towards the Alamarri plains with the irresistible pull of a lodestone. They stretched out for a mangled mile, deforming the natural landscape with churned up mud and half-collapsed earth-works. The twisted wood and iron remnants of siege weaponry rose up from the dirt like the half-exposed bones of some ancient creature. The _majority_ of the dead had been reclaimed from the marshy soil, but not _all;_ there were bodies sunk below the mud that would rot away without ceremony. In some future Age, their rotted skeletons would surface amidst the soil, and some archivist would open up a dusty tome and say _ah, these must be casualties of the Battle of Denerim._

Alistair, who knew full-well what his wife was staring at, gently but firmly drew her attention in the opposite direction.

"Look, my love. There's the mouth of the River Drakon."

Flora turned her head obediently, her fingers clutching Alistair's arm as she swivelled.

"Oh!"

Sure enough, the end of the river widened out into a placid, sand-banked mouth that fed directly into the ocean. There were several children collecting crabs on the shore, their buckets seeming too large for their slender bodies; as they caught sight of the Royal party, they shouted and waved their arms in excitement. Alistair lifted a hand to them, and they began to caper in excitement. One bucket was dropped from careless fingers and its contents went scuttling frantically to freedom across the sand.

"Oh no!" breathed Flora, with disproportionate horror. _"The crabs are escaping!"_

A cackling Zevran gave a cheer for the ambitious crustaceans, and she shot him a look of disapproval.

"Don't pout at me, _carina," _he purred back, grinning down at the child as it bent to retrieve the toppled bucket. "You know I love a daring escape."

They rode on, following the line of the river as it undulated leisurely further inland. This part of Ferelden had been untouched by Blight, the fields were bountiful with summer crops and flowers sprung from the undergrowth. The hedgerows at either side teemed with life; birds and other small creatures going about their business with little comprehension as to the horrors that had befallen the south.

"It's going to get worse from here on, isn't it?" Alistair asked Wynne in a quiet undertone, their horses ambling leisurely side by side. "The further south we get. I remember the field we once saw – the one that was Blighted. Everything looked… _rotten."_

"By the end of tomorrow, I imagine we will start to notice some difference in the landscape, yes," the senior enchanter replied, knowing that there was no point in avoiding reality.

Alistair hissed softly between his teeth, brow furrowing as his fingers tightened on the reins.

"I remember reading that Tevinter took an Age to recover from its Blight," he replied, grimly. "And they had far more wealth and resource at their disposal than we do."

"Yes, but the Darkspawn ran riot over their lands for decades, remember?" Wynne reminded him, steering her horse around a pothole in the road. "The taint had time to sink its claws into the soil. The Fifth Blight – thanks to you and Flora – only lasted a year. The Darkspawn moved quickly, and made use of the Deep Roads."

"Aye," Teagan chimed in, pulling gently at his mare's head to drop back alongside them. "From what the scouts suggest, there's a polluted swathe of land from Ostagar to South Reach, a mile or so wide. It's not continuous – as Wynne mentioned, the horde used the Deep Roads in places, especially as they approached Denerim."

Alistair let out a long exhalation – this was not as bad as he feared. Flora was quiet against his chest; a moment later she let out a soft snore and he tightened his grip around her waist.

"A mile-wide swathe from Ostagar to South Reach," he said after a moment, summoning a map of Ferelden to the forefront of his mind. "I imagine Lothering falls somewhere within that path. Poor sods, I hope most of them managed to get out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: ON THE ROAD AGAIN! I love writing journeys! This is definitely not a realistic royal progress – which would have been a ballache to write about, since they included hundreds of people. So this is a much more intimate Royals on Tour squad, hehe. With shenigans and adventures on the way!


	78. Making Music In The Woods

The company rode westwards through the afternoon, eventually stopping for a very late lunch at a roadside inn. The innkeeper, star-struck and intimidated in equal measure at such lofty guests, rapidly hustled up a vegetable pottage with chunks of bread and Fereldan cheddar. He apologised profusely for such prosaic fare, only to be assured by Alistair that it sufficed perfectly for their needs.

Flora, who had snacked surreptitiously throughout the journey, had spoilt her appetite. After saving her bread and cheese for later, she made her excuses and wandered off to find the privy. The baby was digging both heels into her bladder - it had been doing so all day - and she gave her stomach a gentle prod in the hope that it would shift position.

Naturally, she was accompanied to the very door of the outdoor privy by two Royal Guard. They were no less professional for their lack of closed-face helms and full armour; Flora, used to being under the scrutiny of the Templars, barely noticed their presence.

On the way back to the main tavern building, she paused and then wandered past the entrance, coming to a halt to survey the scenery. The river valley had become more defined, rising steep and craggy on both sides of Drakon's watery course. The river itself had not yet matured into the wide, leisurely flow that fed into the ocean; it was narrow and impatient; it surged around boulders and crested joyfully over waterfalls. Both sides of the valley were thickly fringed with coniferous trees, their foliage a dense, bristled bottle-green even in the height of summer. The inn itself was built atop a stone bluff overlooking the river, close enough to a small waterfall that the spray from the rocks blew upwards to speckle the aged wooden sign hanging over the tavern door.

Flora paused on the stone bluff, admiring the peaceful, pastoral scene before her. She had been telling the truth earlier: viewing the Fereldan countryside without the threat of a Blight hanging overhead was like seeing it for the first time. For one who had spent the vast majority of their life first in a tiny, isolated village, and then locked up in a Circle; it had been a day of new experiences.

"This is _amazing_," she said in awe to the Royal Guard at her left – the one with the beard. "Ferelden is _beautiful_. I didn't realise how… beautiful it was."

Flora realised that she sounded slightly moronic and did not care – the sight took her breath away.

"Please, your majesty," he replied, eyeing the drop between the rocky bluff and the churning water below. "Step away from the edge."

Flora took a single, reluctant step backwards, bringing up a hand to shield against the afternoon sun as she squinted down at the agitated water.

"I wonder what kind of fish swim in this river?" she said to herself, not really expecting an answer. The next moment she startled in surprise as the bearded guard opened his mouth to reply.

"Salmon, I'd reckon."

"Oh! Oh. I agree, but what _type?_ Copper? Pink? _Scaly?"_

Flora stared longingly at the edge of the bluff, wishing that she were not so physically incapacitated.

"I used to be able to climb things," she said wistfully to the guards, who made no reply. "I used to climb up onto the roof of the Circle tower. I could've climbed down _there, _easily."

She canted her head towards the rocky cliff, which shelved steeply down towards the river.

_You must be deluded! You've got as much chance of climbing down there as you do climbing up into the sky._

Instead, Flora turned towards the surrounding woods, gazing off into the shadowed undergrowth beneath the tall pines. The trees grew densely together, lined in gradually ascending rows up the shelving slope of the valley.

"Have you ever seen a _wolf?"_ she asked, impulsively.

The two guards looked at one another in perplexion, then at her.

"My dad used to chase 'em from his farm on the occasion," said the beardless one, eventually. "Why's that, your majesty?"

"I've never seen one," Flora continued, a touch of wistfulness now in her tone. "A wolf. I _know _they're out there, but…we didn't see any on our journey."

_Apart from werewolves and forest spirits, _she thought, recalling the strange inhabitants of the Brecilian Forest.

Flora took an exploratory few steps towards the edge of the trees, and one of the guards issued a slightly awkward cough.

"Queen Florence, you aren't intending to _look for wolves!?_ We can't countenance- "

"I'm just having a quick look," she replied, evasively.

"Flo? Darling, the innkeeper has rustled up an apple tart out of nowhere- "

Alistair appeared in the doorway of the inn, ducking his head to avoid the low sill. As he caught sight of Flora standing at the edge of the trees, his eyebrows rose into his hairline.

"My love, what are you doing?"

"The queen is hunting for wolves," replied the bearded guard, both his tone and expression carefully neutral.

"_Wolves?"_

Alistair blinked for a moment, and then recovered admirably quickly. Letting the door of the inn swing shut behind him, he strode across the muddied grass and came to a halt beside her, squinting off into the thick tangle of undergrowth.

"Duncan and I saw a wolf once," he said, slinging an arm around Flora's shoulders and pressing a kiss to her cheek. "It was on our way to the Circle, actually. It must have once been tawny, but its fur had gone almost completely grey. It crossed right in front of us - we were close enough to see the whiskers on its muzzle."

"Oh," she replied, shooting him an envious glance from the corner of her eye. "I'm jealous."

Alistair grinned down at her, and then reached down impulsively to twine their ringed fingers together.

"Let's see if we can spot a wolf then, my dear."

The guards shot each other a look of mutual confusion.

Squeezing Flora's fingers against his palm, Alistair led her a few steps into the woods. Immediately, the noise from the tavern was muffled, the light level plummeting as the high canopy blocked out the early afternoon sun. Thick tree roots erupted leisurely from the crumbling soil, covered with moss like the tentacles of some aquatic giant. Patches of faded grass were interspersed with clumps of vine and fallen logs; the occasional shaft of sunlight pierced the dense canopy to illuminate the forest floor.

Flora gazed around in vain for any carnivorous mammals, peering into the bushes and the wells of deep green between the tree trunks. The king gave a cursory glance around the forest clearing, and then slid his arms around his new wife's swollen stomach from behind; ducking his head to press desirous lips to the side of her neck.

"Mm, sweetheart. I wish we had this quietness all the time."

"You're meant to be helping me spot wolves," a reproachful Flora chided, reaching up blindly to touch the side of his face. "Not _distracting_ me."

Alistair smiled into his best friend's neck, inhaling the clean, soapy scent of her skin. Despite her reproach, he could feel her subconsciously pressing back against him; curving into his frame like a tautened bowstring.

"Well, I can't help but get distracted," he replied, thumbing the curve of her ear. "Your hair looks so beautiful against all this green."

Flora swivelled around in his arms until she was facing him, reaching up to tighten the loose strings hanging from the front of his travel leathers. This was more an excuse to feel the hard, defined contour of his chest, which curved pleasingly against her spread fingers.

"But if a _sudden wolf_ lunges out from behind the trees now, I'm going to _miss_ it," she breathed, lifting her pale gaze to meet his rich, mead-coloured stare.

"If a _'sudden wolf' _lunges out from behind the trees now," Alistair murmured back, cupping her cheek in his palm. "I'll be carrying you over my shoulder back to the tavern, while shrieking at the top of my lungs."

Flora laughed, and he took advantage of her parted lips to lean forward and press his mouth to hers; aware that moments of privacy were sure to come few and far between over the upcoming weeks. She reached up to put her arms around his neck, sinking against him without hesitation as her boots pressed into the damp, mossy earth.

They emerged from the woods some time later, flush-faced and bright-eyed. Unfortunately their entire company was gathered before the tavern, the horses readied and waiting. A dozen expectant faces turned towards king and queen as they appeared beneath the trees; both appearing slightly startled at their unexpected audience. Expressions ranged from Wynne's mild exasperation, to Teagan's carefully summoned neutrality, to Zevran's face-splitting grin.

"_R-i-iight,"_ said Alistair, clearing his throat in an attempt to brazen it out. "Are we… ready to go, then?"

"We've been ready for a half-candle," Wynne retorted with a little sniff, sitting atop her saddle with better posture than anyone else present.

"We were looking for wolves," Flora said - rather unconvincingly - and then undermined her excuse further by laughing.

As Alistair hoisted Flora up into the saddle, Zevran nudged his horse closer; leaning over to finger a strand of dark red hair that had been tugged free of its leather tie.

"It appears as though wolves have feasted on _you,_ _mi sirenita," _he murmured, pulling gently on the thick lock before letting it go.

Flora flushed, aware of the mottled pink aftermath of Alistair's affection covering her neck and throat. Hastily, she reached up to check that the lacing on her tunic was fully fastened – fortuitously, it appeared to be so.

"We keep forgetting I can't heal them," she replied, wiping her grass-stained palms on her trousers. "By the time we remember, it's too late."

"Too late for what?"

Alistair, who had just returned from checking Teagan's map, swung himself up onto the saddle behind his wife. Instead of replying, Flora canted her head to the side to show off the brands left by his desirous mouth. Alistair eyed her neck for a moment and then grinned, sliding an arm around her waist as he reached forward for the reins.

"What can I say? You're delicious, baby," he replied, cheerfully. "And I'm a weak, weak man who can't resist. Ready for the off?"

They continued to follow the line of the valley; the trail gently winding between the clustered coniferous trees. Although the sun bore down with muted persistence, the majority of their route was shaded by the high canopy above. The gentle rustling of woodland creatures echoed within the undergrowth, while the occasional bird called out to its partner from the branches overhead. The trail was littered with pine cones, which made a satisfying_ crunch _each time they were compressed beneath the iron-clad hoof of a horse.

"It's a shame that Leliana isn't with us," Wynne murmured, taking a deep lungful of forest air. "The journeying doesn't seem quite the same without an accompanying song. Alistair, you've a nice baritone. Do you know any folk tunes or tavern melodies?"

"No," Alistair said, hastily diverting the senior enchanter from that particular train of thought. "None that are appropriate for the ears of nice old ladies. Flo, you've usually graced us with a song or two by this point."

Flora reluctantly tore her eyes from the undergrowth, where a patch of grey had turned out to be a sunlit boulder rather than a skulking wolf.

"I'm _never_ singing again in front of anyone ever again," she said, a touch melodramatically. "You all hate my voice. I can't help that I sound like a… a pig being skinned. I didn't realise that I sounded so horrible, no one in Herring ever said anything."

Wynne breathed a small sigh of intense relief. Alistair, on the other hand, felt a swift kick of guilt straight to the gut. He let the reins drop – the horse was happy to follow the path unguided – and wrapped his best friend within both arms, kissing the top of her head.

"Darling," he breathed, full of contrition. "I'm sorry. I want you to sing; I _love _your voice."

"You don't! You used to make earplugs from bits of bedroll."

"No, my love! I _adore _it."

Ignoring Zevran and Wynne's frantic head-shaking, the king continued to plead with his wife for the next twenty minutes.

Finally, Flora relented, and proceeded to regale the company with a selection of traditional Herring songs. The nature of the little fishing village being what it was, the songs ranged in character from the mildly melancholic to the gratuitously tragic.

As she embarked upon the penultimate verse of a song discussing a troop of sailors being eaten by sea creatures – verse fourteen was about a vast octopus with tentacles the breadth of tree trunks – Zevran leaned over to whisper plaintively to Teagan.

"My horse is about ready to jump into the River Drakon," he whispered, wide-eyed. "I think I can see the poor thing's _ears_ bleeding. How can such supple and sensuous lips produce such grating sounds?"

"What's that?" Flora broke off her verse and twisted her head around to eye her Antivan companion.

"I was only saying what a beautiful _mouth _you have, _nena,"_ Zevran replied, smoothly.

Flora shot him a suspicious look, but continued on with verse fifteen; a particularly depressing stanza about a crab that pinched men in half with vast, razor-edged claws.

As the horses crossed a bridge alongside a gushing waterfall, Zevran took advantage of the noise to lean over to Teagan, murmuring deftly in the bann's ear.

"Trust me, _I _could make beautiful music emerge from that slender throat."

"Elf! You're _incorrigible."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We haven't had a good #forestshag in a while, not since the Brecilian Forest?
> 
> Poor Flo still has a hideous singing voice! I liked the bit about her not realising it, because nobody in Herring cared that she sounded horrendous!


	79. A Campfire in the Bannorn

They made good progress throughout the afternoon and early evening, the forested valley gradually flattening out into a shallow dip in the landscape. The densely-packed trees had become sparser as they descended; this wide, flat basin had only a few dogged conifers clinging to the soil. The river had become a wide, meandering ribbon of silver that stretched off towards the horizon, several thin tributaries ran off it like skeins of thread. Underfoot, the ground alternated between waterlogged marshland that sucked at the horses' hooves, and bare expanses of exposed rock. It was not a particularly attractive part of the bannorn, yet sunset's mellow cast loaned it a coarse and unexpected beauty.

"There, King Alistair! The Imperial road lies just to the south."

One of the scouts pointed as Alistair drew up his horse, squinting off towards the man's raised finger. Sure enough, lit by the soft light of sunset, the pale, ridged spine of the Imperial Highway undulated across the landscape. Raised by stone and magic many Ages ago, it was designed to facilitate travel and inspire awe; even now, it was still an architectural marvel.

Alistair peered at it for a moment, and then cast an assessing eye west towards the setting sun.

"We'll make camp here, tonight," he decided, as the scout whistled for the return of his falcon. "The light is falling quickly, and the Highway isn't in good condition."

Alistair and Flora knew this from first-hand experience; having often forsaken the unreliable Tevinter highways for more prosaic – and reliable – footpaths on their own journeys.

They stopped on an exposed stone bluff, with a gentle slope of shingle that ran down to a large pond. Although this would not be the most comfortable campsite, it was preferable to pitching tents in the soggy marshland.

One guard took charge of the horses, save for one which had a stone shard caught in its shoe. Alistair and Teagan – who, between them, had several decades of experience in the stables – took the horse to one side and began to confer on the best way to remove the stone. A pair of scouts disappeared into the clumps of reeds to hunt hares; Bann Reginalda instructed her own manservants to start building a fire.

Flora, who had gone to offer her assistance with the assembly of the larger tents, had been politely turned down. Slightly perturbed, she wandered across to where Zevran and Wynne were sorting their own accommodation.

"They won't let me help," she said, wistfully watching Wynne's bulky tent soar several feet upwards. Following the precise movements of the mage's staff, the sheet of canvas folded itself neatly over its wooden scaffold. "Are you both sharing a tent?"

The elf was prostrate on the stone, soaking up the last crimson rays of sunset. A pile of canvas sat abandoned beside its accompanying frame, several feet away.

"Tragically, no," Zevran replied, without opening his eyes. "Even though I have often declared my _appreciation _for _seasoned women_. The older the wine, the richer the taste, after all! It is not too late, Wynne! We could still share a bedroll."

Wynne let out a derisive snort, sliding her pack beneath the canvas with a far more prosaic kick of her boot.

"Zevran, I'm flattered, but I hope you'll accept my polite refusal. And, Flora, you should sit down and _rest._ It's been a long day."

"I can't sit down yet," Flora said immediately, clamping both hands over her leather-covered rear. "My rump is _so _sore. Why are saddles so uncomfortable? I think I'd rather sit on the horse's _naked back."_

Zevran was about to make an inappropriate offer involving his massage skills, but was distracted by Flora heaving up the mass of canvas he had discarded. Immediately, he sprung to his feet with the agility of a mountain cat and was at her side seconds later; reaching out to take the heavy folds of material.

"_Carina, _allow me to do it. If you want to help, you can find me some pegs, hm?"

Flora dutifully began to wander around the campsite, humming a tuneless melody under her breath as she peered down into the grass. Zevran, meanwhile, had espied where the royal tent had been placed – it was indistinguishable from the others, save for an inner lining sewn in to protect the childbearing queen from chilly summer nights. Pointedly, he arranged his pile of canvas close to theirs, their tent walls almost within touching distance.

The senior enchanter, whom nothing escaped, noticed this and gave a little sigh.

"Why torture yourself, Zevran? It will only hurt if you hear her with him."

"Ah, but it is an _exquisite_ torture," replied the elf smoothly, flashing her a white-toothed smile in the twilight. "And I shall at least have the company of my imagination."

Overhead, the first few stars were igniting behind a rose-silver veil of cloud as twilight settled in over the bannorn. It was a mild evening, still and silent; their campfire the only man-made source of light for as far as the eye could see. According to the map, a string of small villages were situated on the other side of the Imperial Highway, yet their presence was hidden by both distance and the rapidly descending dusk.

Teagan had managed to coax the stone from the horse's hoof, while Alistair stroked its nose and murmured calming words. The scouts had returned with three large hares, which were summarily skinned, jointed and placed on roasting spits. Bearskins had been retrieved from one of the carts; these were arranged around the campfire so that the company did not have to sit directly on the damp grass.

Flora had given herself the job of organising the vegetables – partly because she wanted to feel useful, and partly so she could reserve herself the earthiest portion. She no longer questioned _why_ the baby craved the taste of soil and tree bark, but merely sought to appease it's desires in the hope that – in return – it would never develop an aversion to _fish._

Teagan was showing Alistair their progress on the map, tilting it towards the light of the fire.

"We've reached here," he was saying, pointing towards a spot on the West Road. "We've made good progress today. If we make similar distance tomorrow, we'll be in sight of South Reach by the end of the day after."

Alistair nodded his gratitude, eyeing the map a moment longer before clapping his uncle on the shoulder and wandering back in the direction of roasted hare. Flora was seated amidst her companions, balancing her plate on top of her stomach and grimacing at something that Wynne had said.

"The baby needs more than just vegetables," the senior enchanter was saying, delicately wiping her greasy fingers with a handkerchief. "Go and get yourself some cheese, or nuts."

Flora was about to clamber to her feet when Alistair hastened to stop her; heading across to the provisions cart to rummage around in their food supplies. Wynne, Zevran and Flora watched him hunting determinedly through the crates, waving aside a tentative offer of assistance from one of the scouts. Clearly, the king was determined to bear responsibility for nourishing his fat-bellied wife.

"I'm very proud of that boy," Wynne said softly under her breath, leaning back against the bearskin. "He's come a long way."

Zevran and Flora both swivelled curious gazes towards the senior enchanter; though the latter already had an inkling what Wynne was referring to.

"When I first joined your company, the boy had taken no responsibility for anything," the old mage said, watching Alistair hunting for the wheel of Fereldan cheddar buried at the bottom of the provisions. "He had delegated all decision making to _you_, Flora. He put his fingers in his ears and _babbled nonsense _whenever his birthright was mentioned."

The loyal Flora immediately sprung to the defence of her best friend.

"He was grieving for Duncan," she protested, earnestly. "For the Wardens. And he was still in shock after what happened at Ostagar."

"And you were a sheltered little girl freshly plucked from a Circle," Wynne retorted, gently. "Anyway, child, let me finish! It has been my pleasure to see Alistair mature over the past year. He has not only taken responsibility for the governance of the country, but he has taken responsibility for _your_ wellbeing, Flora."

Just then, Alistair appeared from the shadows, triumphantly wielding a large hunk of cheese. Sinking down beside Flora, he planted a kiss on her cheek; one hand dropping to stroke the curve of her stomach.

"Here you go, my love. I want you to eat it _all."_

Flora took the cheese with a beam of gratitude, sinking her teeth into it as Alistair settled himself on the bearskin at her side.

"That's good Fereldan cheddar," he declared, proudly. _"Infinitely _superior to any varieties with mould in – I'm looking at _you, _Orlais! Really, who would deliberately let their cheese go bad?"

Alistair then trailed off, looking around at his friends' faces in bemusement.

"Why are you all staring at me like I've grown a second head?"

"No reason, dear boy," Wynne replied quietly, handing him a plate of roasted hare. "Here, eat up."

Alistair took the plate, shooting her a suspicious look. When the senior enchanter continued to smile enigmatically, the king gave a little shrug and tucked into the meat, forking it enthusiastically into his mouth.

For several minutes they ate in silence, gazing up at the starry firmament as it slowly emerged from the sheer veil of twilight. The stars seemed to ignite one at a time, like vast and looming lanterns; the moon was as round as a robin's egg. Teagan soon came to join them, accepting a plate of meat with a grateful nod.

"When I was younger and staying with a farmer and his wife, I can remember eating roasted hare," Wynne said suddenly, her voice breaking the silence.

They all turned to look at her; it was rare for the senior enchanter to divulge anything from her life before the Circle.

"The farm was plagued by hares, and they attracted foxes, so the farmer hired some local boys to hunt down as many as they could. We were eating hare for _months. _Except for on my sixth birthday, when they cooked a goose to celebrate."

Flora looked up from her carrot, swallowing hastily to ask her question.

"When _is _your birthday, Wynne?"

"The last day of Kingsway," the senior enchanter replied, and gave a little nod when Flora's eyes widened. "Yes, about when the baby's due to arrive."

"You'll get a free flagon of ale at the tavern if you share a birthday with the next king or queen of Ferelden," Teagan offered, and Wynne smiled.

"A little bird tells me, Bann Guerrin, that you have coin wagered on the babe being born in Harvestmere."

"Aye, you're not wrong," the bann replied wryly as he lifted his ale flagon. "Quite a few coins, actually!"

Flora, meanwhile, had turned her attention to Zevran. She gave him a pat on the knee, curious eyes settling on her friend's rich, tattooed face as he reclined against the bearskin.

"Zevran, when is your birthday?"

The elf gave a little laugh, propping himself up on his elbows to eye her.

"I have no idea, _mi sirenita. _I am not even sure how _old_ I am, exactly. I know I was born around the fourth or fifth year of this Age, but the actual month and day is a mystery. Anyway, even if it had been recorded somewhere, the Crows would have made sure that I forgot it. They like to obliterate anything about one's self that existed before they did. As far as they are concerned, you were born when you became a member of your House."

This was a long speech for the elf, which was unusual in itself. Zevran snickered at the ensuing silence, reaching up measuredly to tuck a strand of white-blond hair back into place.

"Anyway,_ mi florita, _your birthday was not celebrated either for much of your life."

"But I still knew when it was," Flora replied, and then stretched out an impulsive hand to rest on top of his own. "Why don't you choose a birthday now? Then we can mark its passing."

"You choose for me, _carina."_

"_Really?"_

"_Sí."_

Flora thought for several moments, her brow furrowed. It took a while for her to recall the exact names of the months – even after five years away from Herring, she still was more familiar with the fishing seasons – but eventually, her face lit up.

"The twelfth day of Harvestmere," she said after a moment, triumphantly.

Nobody could work out the inspiration behind this proud declaration – it seemed a date randomly plucked from the ether.

"It's the day when you came to us," Flora continued, kindly not mentioning the circumstances. "I remember _specifically_ because Alistair was singing a song called _The Dozen Blushing Maids of Redcliffe _in honour of the date."

Zevran said nothing, but looked at her very closely. Flora kept her hand atop the elf's tattooed fingers, her pale eyes gazing steadily into his cocoa-dark irises. Although she did not elaborate further; her intention was writ raw across her face.

_It's the day you threw off the black-feathered mantle of the Crow, and became a free man. It might not be your actual birthday, but it's not far off._

"It's a day worth celebrating," she said at last, patting her palm against his knuckles.

The elf remained silent, trusting in his decades of training to maintain the neutrality of his expression. Instead of replying, he turned his palm over to entrap her fingers; bringing them to his lips for the briefest of moments. Flora smiled at her friend, squeezing his hand tightly in return.

"'_The Dozen Blushing Maids of Redcliffe'," _Alistair said out loud, his brow creasing as he recalled the verses. "I haven't heard it in full for _months. _Teagan, what verse comes after '_Clair with the golden hair'?"_

"_Bess with the lovely legs_," replied Teagan, with a snort. "Maker's Breath, is that song still doing the rounds? It was popular when I was a boy."

As the night deepened, each member of the company took to their tent. The campfire continued to smoulder away; a beacon in the darkness competing with the silvery wash of moonlight from above.

To Zevran's disappointment, there were no muffled sighs or stealthy movements within the newlyweds' tent. Sated from taking his queen against a tree in the forest earlier, the king was instead determined to ease any of her residual aches from the hours spent in the saddle.

"Anywhere else, baby?" he asked, kneeling amidst the furs with her bare feet in his lap.

Flora, clad in one of his shirts and sprawled flat on her back, shook her head with a little yawn. He had attended to her sore knee, her aching calves and her swollen feet in turn; she was both soothed and intensely grateful.

"Can't I do the same for you?" she whispered as he lay back against the bedroll, lifting his arm for her to settle against his chest. "You can't have _no _sore bits."

Alistair laughed; he was so accustomed to the saddle that long periods spent on horseback barely affected him.

"None yet. I'll let you know when I get some," he offered, drawing her close to his side and pressing his lips to her hair. "Are you comfortable? Warm enough? I can have more furs brought in."

Flora let out a Herring grunt that translated to _I'm fine, _turning her face against his shoulder and yawning. Alistair cast another eye at the tent doorway to ensure that it was fully fastened, surreptitiously shifting himself so that his broad back formed a barrier between his wife and the entrance. He reached down to find her hand already groping for his; their fingers twining together.

"'Night, my love."

"'Night. Don't let the weever fish bite!"

There followed a few moments of silence, and then Zevran's outraged voice filtered out of the darkness from the adjacent tent.

"Really? Not even a _quick_ _grope? _I am disappointed! Call yourself _newlyweds."_

Flora hid her laughter in Alistair's armpit as he propped himself up on an elbow, directing a glare towards the canvas wall.

"Stop eavesdropping and go to sleep!"

"I cannot _eavesdrop," _retorted the elf, sulkily. "We are in _tents. _There are no _eaves."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OC Author Note: YES! I love campfire scenes! Haven't had one in aaaaaages. Anyway, I got the bit about Zevran having no idea when he was born from the wikia. I thought that the day that he relinquished his Crow contract and joined the Wardens would be a good day to choose for his new birthday; since it's a fresh start/life free from indentured servitude.


	80. Reunion With An Old Friend

The next day dawned even more benevolently than its predecessor. The sun smiled down kindly upon the company as they made their way out of the shallow valley, eventually re-joining the River Drakon. It was far wider than it had been near the coast, carving a leisurely swathe through the landscape like a Highever-blue ribbon. They had a good view of the meandering watercourse from the elevated Imperial Highway; which crested the hills and stretched westwards as far as the eye could see.

The ancient Tevinter trade route was in remarkably good condition, considering its advanced years. It was built from the whitestone quarries of the bannorn, which were renowned across Thedas for the longevity of their products. The elevated roadway stood thirty feet above the faded grass, with crumbling watch towers and decorative arches rising at periodic intervals. It cut through woods, divided fields and bridged rivers; straight as a Minrathous yard-stick.

The company made good time, stopping for lunch in the shadow of a ruined guard tower. Flora, who had burnt beneath the unforgiving sun, was hiding in the shade while Zevran had stripped beyond the point of appropriateness and was sprawled atop a toppled granite column. The rest of the group were either positioned on the tiles, perched on the edge of the cart or leaning against the wall.

"Look," Ser Gilmore said suddenly, his elbows resting on the stone as he made a gesture towards a hilltop to the south. "You can see what remains of Caer Anwir. Family seat of Bann Gethin."

The eyes of the company turned towards the old ruins, silhouetted like jagged teeth against the backdrop of the forested hills.

"Bann Gethin?" Alistair asked, looking up from his bread and cheese. "That's not a name I know. Is he a member of the Landsmeet?"

"He was a traitor," Teagan interjected, gazing at the single turret left standing on the abandoned castle. "During the Orlesian occupation, he hosted the _chevaliers _and provided them with a base to prepare their assault on Denerim."

Alistair frowned, feeling an irrational and personal indignation at an event that had occurred decades before his birth.

"What happened to the bann?"

"The freeholders rose up against him," Bann Reginalda interrupted, casting a final glance up at the ruined building. "Burned down the castle, right to its bones. Gethin was forced to flee."

"To Denerim?"

"No, to Orlais. He threw himself on the mercy of the old Emperor. Adopted an Orlesian name and opened a _salon _in Val Royeaux."

Alistair let out a derisive snort, eyeing the ruins with new resentment.

As the king and nobles gazed up at the crumbling remnants of the traitor's old seat, Flora withdrew further into the shade of the watch-tower and methodically munched her way down a carrot.

"_Mi florita," _called Zevran, shielding his eyes from the sun as he stretched out a hand towards her. "Come out from the shadows. You are lurking in the gloom like a little _gnome."_

"I need to stay in the shade," retorted Flora, pressing her fingers to her flushed cheeks. "Everyone else has gone brown, and I've turned into a tomato._"_

She gestured towards Alistair, indignant. Two days beneath the sun had deepened her best friend's tawny skin to a rich, smooth olive and bleached golden streaks atop his head.

"It's your _hair_, child," advised Wynne, who was leaning elegantly against the side of a nearby cart. "Redheads are always quicker to burn."

"Well, Leliana never did," Flora said, outraged at the unfairness of it all. "And she's redheaded, too."

Zevran sat up, the tunic flung across his naked loins slipping dangerously low. He eyed Flora, and then gave a giggle that was part-sympathetic and part-amused.

"You are the shade of a boiled lobster, _nena."_

"Thank you for the compliment," she breathed, earnestly. "Lobsters are my _favourite_ shellfish. "

* * *

The party continued to follow the Imperial Highway west as the elevated road ran alongside the languid meander of River Drakon. The sun bore down relentlessly on the heads of those on horseback; fortunately, the clever Tevinter engineers had built wells into the foundations of each watch-tower. Every few hours, they paused beneath the shade of these crumbling parapets while a pair of scouts ran down to refill the water-pouches and a bucket for the horses.

Seeing the miraculous Tevinter engineering reminded Flora of her own engineering project back in Denerim. As they waited for the scouts to refill the water pouches, she gave Alistair a little nudge in the ribs.

"By the time we get back to Denerim, the new water channel for the alienage will be dug, won't it?"

"Should be, sweetheart," he replied, reaching down to adjust the length of his stirrup.

Flora thought to herself, a faint line furrowed across her brow.

"Maybe once the water channel is finished, we could put some proper drainage into the alienage?"

"Of course, baby. Whatever you want."

Teagan, who had been casually eavesdropping, interjected with a wry smile on his face.

"Flora, your good intentions are admirable. But do you really think you can make a difference to the position of elves within Thedas? I don't agree with the mistreatment of the poor sods, but it's going to take more than some water and sewers to change their situation."

Flora gazed back at the bann, considering his point for several moments.

"It'll make a difference to the elves in the alienage," she replied, with a small shrug.

Teagan opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again; flashing her a slightly wistful grin.

"Aye, poppet. You're not wrong."

* * *

By early evening, they had reached their designated point of camp. The ground had flattened out into marshy river plains, the hills of the Bannorn behind them. Tucked into a curve of the river, the camp was located beside a small copse of trees that provided some shelter from the elements. Tents were assembled in a loose semi-circle and a fire was built in their centre. There was no need to go hunting; the company would eat the remainder of the hare that had been caught the previous evening. They cooked the strips of flesh in wide roasting pans, accompanied with root vegetables and a small pot of turnip stew for their meat-averse queen.

As soon as the moon crested just to the north of the eastern hills, Wynne retired to her bedroll with the excuse that she was tired. In reality, the senior enchanter wanted to finish her letter to Irving using the far superior light of her staff, and the use of magic always made their accompanying scouts and guards twitchy. Teagan and Zevran played several quiet rounds of Wicked Grace, accompanied by Ser Gilmore and Bann Reginalda. After Reginalda had lost a sum of coin to her fellow bann - and an even larger amount to the cackling elf - she also retired to her tent with the declaration that she would bankrupt her beleaguered bannorn if she continued to play. Teagan, Ser Gilmore and Zevran embarked on a fourth game; doling out cards on a convenient flat-topped stone with their ale flagons precariously balanced beside them. The dogs rested at the boundaries of the camp, yawning and snapping their jaws idly at crickets.

Alistair was sitting on the damp grass, his sweat-dampened shirt spread over a nearby tree trunk. Flora was kneeling behind him, her fingers working their way into the tight knots of tension that wreathed his broad, bare shoulders. Every so often, her thumbs would alleviate a particular ache that had throbbed for hours and he would let out a soft grunt of relief. Whenever this happened, Alistair would reach up to catch her hand; bringing her fingers to his mouth to kiss them.

One of the scouts brought the map across to show the king, angling it towards the firelight to illuminate the creamy parchment. As the scout began to illustrate the next day's journey using a twig to trace the route across the map, Flora surreptitiously admired the sun-bronzed definition of her best friend's back. Years of wielding a weighty sword and shield had broadened his shoulders and hardened the muscle beneath; and although it was now a familiar sight to Flora, it still made her breathless.

"You are practically _drooling, mi sirenita."_

Flora beamed at her elven companion, and then slid her arms around Alistair's neck to embrace him from behind. Still talking to the scout, he reached up to caress her slender forearm with his palm; unable to stop himself from grinning as she pressed a kiss to his ear.

"At least there should be some more _entertainment_ for me tonight," Zevran observed in a laconic undertone, watching Flora nuzzle her face against Alistair's broad neck. "She can't keep her hands off him. _Buena niña!"_

The scout made a tactful retreat with the map as Alistair swivelled his head to seek out his wife, reaching up to draw her face down to his. She beamed against his mouth, parting her lips readily to admit his desirous tongue.

"I see that you two are still incapable of restraining yourselves in public," came an acerbic voice from the shadows above them. "'Tis nice to know that some things do not change."

The guards flailed, scrambling around in a rare display of ill-preparedness. They were trained to respond to an assault at ground level; not a snide voice filtering down from the branches overhead.

Flora, however, recognised the voice's owner immediately. She let out a squeal of delight and thrust herself gracelessly to her feet, using Alistair's shoulders to propel her swollen belly upwards. Her knee gave a soft twinge of protest and she ignored it, too focused on the arrival of this unexpected visitor. Stepping over the prostrate Zevran, she scuttled barefoot across the grass in the direction of the voice.

"Morrigan?" she bleated up to the shadowy branches, head swivelling back and forth. "Morrigan?!"

A dark shape dropped from the branches, briefly taking on the silhouette of a bird before fluently elongating into recognisable form. The Witch of the Wilds rose upright, clad in her customary rustic garb. Her skin was tanned a rich nut-brown; though the sun's attention had not lightened the glossy crow's wing sheen of her hair. The usual tiny bones and polished beads hung around her neck, and dangled from matted dark locks. She appeared as though she had not slept beneath a roof in weeks; indeed, the slight hesitation in her steps suggested that she had spent much of the past month as something _other _than human.

Hearing Alistair approaching from behind, Flora came to a halt several yards before their oldest companion. She shifted from foot to foot in slight agitation, her fingers quivering at her sides.

Morrigan eyed her for a moment, and then gave a little sigh of manufactured resignation.

"Alright, then. If you _must."_

Flora immediately launched herself towards the dark-haired woman, throwing her arms around Morrigan's tan waist with a muffled squawk. Morrigan rolled her feline eyes, but brought an arm around Flora's shoulders to embrace her gingerly in return.

"Still as sentimental as ever, I see," the witch observed laconically, patting their former Warden on the head with guarded affection. "Now, now, that's enough, Flora. Let me look at you."

Extracting herself from Flora's octopus grip, Morrigan stepped back and swept her gilded gaze up and down the redhead's body. Her eyebrows shot into her hairline, and she let out a small squawk of amusement.

"_Ha! _You are _gargantuan_."

"Garga- what?"

"_Vast. _Are you _sure_ that you did not lie with Alistair earlier than you claim? That babe looks almost ready to drop."

"Reasonably sure," Alistair interjected pleasantly, coming up to stand beside his wife. "And Flo isn't _gargantuan_. She's gorgeous. How are you?"

Morrigan ignored the pleasantry. Her eyes moved appraisingly over Alistair's bare chest, then dropped to the ring he bore on his fourth finger, then darted across to its twin on Flora's hand; this smaller version resting neatly beneath a fat, gleaming pearl.

"So, you two are finally bound in the eyes of the Chantry, now," she observed, with a sardonic smile. "Congratulations, _'your majesties'_. I certainly hope you don't expect me to _bow._ Alistair, I assume that you would like to know the state of the Wilds?"

"Come and sit down first," insisted Flora, reaching up to pluck a stray leaf from the witch's hair. "Rest for a bit. Have you had any dinner?"

"Only a few worms and beetles," replied Morrigan, delighting in Alistair's grimace. "And a _frog."_

"We have some hare left over," continued Flora, earnestly. "And I've got some vegetable stew you can have."

Morrigan followed the king and queen back to the circle of firelight, glancing down at the prostrate elf as he waved slender fingers in her direction.

"_Buenas noches, _my dusky beauty. As titillatingly dressed as ever, I'm pleased to see!"

The witch resisted the urge to plant her leather bound toe between the elf's ribs, setting herself down on the grass before the campfire. Flora immediately began to sort out the remainder of her vegetable stew, tipping it into a bowl and rummaging around for her spoon. Alistair, rather grudgingly, donated the last few strips of his roasted hare to the steaming mixture.

"Here," Flora said at last, offering the bowl in both hands. "You must be tired."

Morrigan made no reply, but took the bowl with a slight inclination of the head. The guards and scouts had withdrawn a short distance behind the wagons to give them some privacy. Teagan eyed the witch for a moment with a carefully neutral expression – he had met Morrigan on a handful of occasions, but was still not entirely comfortable in her presence. After a few moments he retreated to his tent, leaving the flap ostentatiously open.

For several minutes, nobody spoke as the witch tucked hungrily into the stew. Alistair, suddenly self-conscious, reached for his tunic and pulled it on over his head. Flora absentmindedly rubbed her belly, feeling the outline of the baby pressing against the heel of her hand. Zevran rolled over onto his stomach, weaving together strands of dry grass with deft, tea-leaf brown fingers.

"So: the Wilds," Morrigan said at last, licking her lips clean and reaching inside her skirts. "I have marked a map, Alistair, lest you have trouble grasping my meaning."

"Thanks," remarked Alistair drily, shifting himself over on the grass to peer down at the map. Despite the initial wariness, his pupils soon constricted in concentration as he stared at the inked markings.

"Here are the Wilds." Morrigan darted a pointed nail onto the parchment, tracing the outline of her former home. "See? Ostagar is _there, _marked with the dot."

Flora felt the now-familiar shiver run down her spine; an icy trickle that sprung forth whenever the old fortress was mentioned.

"I have shaded the areas that were swarmed by the Darkspawn," Morrigan explained, steadily. "The areas which have been the most tainted are shaded the darkest. The soil there is dry and crumbling, there are patches of decay running through it. The trees and foliage have rotted into mere skeletons. The marshes themselves hold no more life; they are stagnant and impure."

Alistair nodded, grimly. He pointed to the area either side of the black shading, which had been lightly speckled with ink.

"What about this part?"

"The Darkspawn passed through the land, but did not stay there for a long duration," explained Morrigan, with surprising patience considering whom she was speaking to.

"And the condition of the soil?"

"Tainted on the surface, but I do not believe that the poison runs deep," she replied, letting him take the map to study it more intensely. "The Chasind are working to reclaim their old lands. There is one tribe which claims to have mixed a fertiliser that can cleanse tainted soil and make it arable again."

"Do you think it works?"

"'Tis possible, I suppose." Morrigan shrugged a bare shoulder elegantly, the small bones about her neck rattling. "They are renowned for being gifted at the alchemic arts."

Alistair nodded and then fell silent, his olive brow creased in thought. Morrigan eyed him for a moment, letting out a soft, slightly exasperated sigh.

"If you wish me to investigate further, Alistair, then simply say the word. I have a great range of talents, but _mind-reading _is not one of them!"

"Ah," Alistair raised his head, hopefully. "Sorry. Yes – yes. That would be very helpful… if you don't mind."

"Then I will do it, since you ask so _politely. _'Tis always good to have a king beholden to one."

Flora beamed, delighted at the lack of the rancour between the former Templar and the hedge witch. Alistair and Morrigan had spent much of the journey around Ferelden sniping at one another; but he had matured since accepting the mantle of king, and she had learnt a fraction more patience during her months spent in the company of others.

"Oh," Flora said, suddenly. "Did you ever find your mother?"

"Flemeth? Why, it's a mystery, really," Morrigan replied, raising both eyebrows while adjusting the red fabric that hung across her breasts. "Our hut – as I suspected – was destroyed. But she has gone, and taken our possessions with her. Indeed, I have heard rumours that she has gone north. She _could_ be hiding out in the Marches. Equally possible, she _could_ be on a mountaintop in the Anderfels. She could be advising the Empress Celene in Val Royeaux! Who knows?"

Flora did not know quite how to respond and so stayed silent, biting anxiously at her thumbnail. Morrigan snorted, and then rose elegantly to her feet.

"You're not staying the night?" the queen breathed, glancing over her shoulder. "We could find a tent for you."

"Plenty of room in mine, _amor," _offered the supine Zevran, cackling.

Morrigan curled her lip, and gave a small shake of the head.

"No, I will waste no time. I shall fly south to seek out these Chasind, and see if there is any truth in their claim. If there _is _something to it, Alistair, then I shall bring back a sample of this miraculous fertiliser. Expect me in a few weeks."

Alistair gave an appreciative grunt of thanks, his gratitude wary but genuine.

"No offence," he said suddenly, as the witch turned to leave. "But you're being so… _helpful. _Why?"

Morrigan let out a small, amused laugh; her gilded eyes flashing like those of an owl in the darkness.

"Do I _have_ to have an ulterior motive, Alistair? Is a desire to repair this crippled country not enough?"

When he remained silent, eyeing her with unblinking focus, the witch relented a fraction.

"I may also have a wish to travel in the future, beyond the borders of Ferelden," she said, quietly. "And I should like to say that I am acquainted with both of your _newly prominent _selves if some foolish Templars – or anyone else – attempts to interfere with my journeying."

"You're more than an acquaintance," Flora replied, solemn and earnest. "You're our _friend."_

She elbowed Alistair, who gave a mildly ambiguous grunt.

The witch inclined her head, licking a finger to ascertain the direction of the prevailing wind. Without a proper farewell – as was her custom – she stepped back into the shadow of the tree. Moments later her shape blurred into a winged form, ascending above the canopy with several powerful flaps and angling itself towards the south.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Hurray Morrigan! There's a lot of headcanon stuff in this chapter, like the bit about Bann Gethin, you won't find it on the DA wikia but I enjoy just making little lore things up. Hopefully it fits in reasonably well with existing lore! Also about the Chasind fertiliser that restores life to Blighted soil. But Ferelden can't remain fucked forever! This story is called the BLOOM after the Blight, after all, hehehe


	81. Uncontrollable Urges

Alistair, Flora and Zevran gazed after the witch's shadow as it diminished into the night; their expressions ranging from wariness, to admiration, to wistfulness.

"I still don't trust her, Flo," Alistair said eventually, reaching for Morrigan's discarded bowl and spooning up the scraps. "Not _fully."_

"Mm, I know. She's so _clever_, though," breathed Flora, enviously. "I want to see her transform into a fish."

"_So close," _bemoaned Zevran from beside them. "I was _convinced_ that was going to be the moment when her shirt would finally slip to the side. Honestly, there is some enchantment on that fabric that makes it cling so _stubbornly _in place."

Alistair gave such a grimace of horror that it was visible through the fire-lit gloom. Zevran cackled, reaching out to rap him pointedly on the knee.

"Come now, Alistair! I know that you and Morrigan have had a few squabbles- "

"A few? A _few?!"_

" – a few _minor disagreements. _But you cannot deny that she is a beautiful woman, despite the prickly exterior."

Alistair let out an ambiguous grunt, handing the bowl to Flora so that she could scoop up the final spoonfuls of cooked carrot. Zevran rolled over onto his side, dropping the braided grass and smiling wickedly up at the king.

"If things had gone a little differently, you would have had to _lie _with the witch, to save the life of the one you love. Remember?"

Alistair snorted, watching Flora as she assiduously wiped the bowl clean with a handful of leaves.

"I think we both would have needed to wear bags over our heads if it had come to that," he said, wry and honest. "Or blown out the candles _very quickly. _Do you need any help, darling?"

"No," she replied, leaning forwards to stack the bowl neatly alongside the others. "Who hasn't cleaned their plate? The ants will _swarm_ it."

Plucking up a fresh handful of leaves – fortunately, they lay about the clearing in abundance – Flora wiped clean the plate. She then spotted some scattered cutlery in the dirt several feet away, and let out a little grumble of disapproval. As she reached for it, Alistair clambered to his feet with Morrigan's map; rolling it up as he went to retrieve a square of the soft, oiled leather used to protect documents.

Flora, distracted by thoughts of _transformations into fish_, accidentally let a spoon drop into the tangled branches at the base of the fire. Without thinking, she reached her hand towards the heart of the flames to retrieve it; instinctually expecting the glimmering shield to form around her naked, vulnerable skin.

Quick as a viper, a set of richly tanned fingers wrapped around Flora's pale wrist, intercepting her hand before it could pass into the flame. Zevran had spotted her thoughtless gesture and had lunged forwards, whip-like; acting just in time to stop her from burning herself.

Flora stared speechless at the elf, and then down at her hand. Her pale grey eyes widened, gleaming with sudden sadness. Her lower lip gave a dangerous tremor as she was reminded, once again, of what she had lost.

"_Ooh- !"_

"Shh, shh, _carina_," Zevran crooned, shooting a quick glance over to where Alistair was still rummaging through the wagon. "We don't want dear _marido _to worry, do we? Already, he frets too much about you."

The former Crow patted her cheek gently and Flora took a deep breath, knowing that he was correct. Feeling her heartbeat slowly return to a more sedentary pace, she reached up to cover Zevran's hand with her own, grateful for his quick thinking.

"Thank you," she whispered, clutching his fingers tightly against her palm. "I really am an idiot."

"Don't be ridiculous, _nena," _he replied, flashing her a wistful smile. "Just be more careful in the future, _eh?"_

Flora nodded, squeezing Zevran's palm hard once more before letting his hand go. She took another gulp of cool night air, calming herself down and letting the solemn mask fall once more over her face.

Alistair returned to the campfire several minutes later, wielding the leather-wrapped map in triumph.

"Took me ages to find the cover," he said, cheerfully. "Buried underneath a lot of fancy outfits for you, Lo. I think Leliana was under the impression that you'd be attending all sorts of _parties_ during this progress!"

Flora stared up at her handsome, honest-featured husband, firelight flickering over the olive skin and gilded hair. Alistair grinned back at her as he lowered his muscled frame onto the grass, just about managing to fold the lengthy limbs into place.

"You've got a bit of a peculiar look in your eyes, sweetheart," he said, peering at Flora's face through the gloom. "Are you alright?"

"Nooo," Flora whispered, shuffling across the grass until she was pressed against his side. "I'm very sad."

Alistair's eyebrows rose upwards into his hairline, the green flecks in his hazel eyes standing out in dismay as he stared at her. The concern radiated from him in waves, immediate and intense. Flora felt a rush of affection for her best friend, who always showed such consideration for her feelings.

"Darling, what's wrong? Tell me, and I'll sort it."

"I'm sad because you put your tunic back on," she replied, earnest and straight-faced. "And I wish you hadn't."

Alistair's wide, generous mouth curved into a grin; the natural hauteur of his face dissolving into relief and pleasure.

"Well, that's easy to fix, my love," he murmured, pulling off his shirt in a single, swift gesture. "There we go."

Flora beamed up at him, clambering over the grass in a crab-like motion until she could crawl into his lap. Alistair laced his fingers behind the small of her back, and then laughed as she spread greedy palms across the hard muscle of his chest.

"What are you doing, sweetheart?"

"I'm doing… an inspection," his wife replied vaguely, tracing the sinewy outlines of sun-bronzed pectoral muscle with her thumbs.

"An inspection of _what?"_

Flora gave an indecipherable mumble in response, and slid her fingers up to grip both shoulders, admiring their breadth and latent strength. Lifting a hand, Alistair caught Flora's cheek gently in his palm, turning her face towards him. The muted glow of the fire lit strands of copper in her hair; her pale eyes loaned artificial warmth by the reflected flame.

She parted her lips as her husband's mouth came down on hers, letting her tongue nudge gently against his own. He let out a muffled groan and deepened the kiss, feeling her exhale breathlessly into his mouth. Wanting suddenly to coax more of those wanton little sounds from his best friend's throat; Alistair began to bite softly at her lower lip, nibbling at the tender flesh until Flora was panting and flushed in his lap. As he made love to her mouth with his tongue, his fingers worked on the laces at her chest, pulling them loose.

Kissing the full, sulky curve of her Cousland mouth, Alistair slid the tunic down Flora's arm; wanting to trace her collarbone with his tongue. Instead, the navy wool slipped down far enough to reveal the creamy swell of a breast and the pink of a nipple. Alistair hesitated for a moment, and then his attention was caught by Flora's mouth landing firmly back on his own. Simultaneously, her hand delved down the front of his breeches; small, covetous fingers seeking out the proof of his desire.

For a few moments they kissed with a rich, enjoyable languidness; his fingers caressing her swollen breast and her hand moving surreptitiously down the front of his breeches. Leaning back to grant her stroking palm more room, Alistair happened to catch the elf's wide, fully-blown pupil.

"Maker's Breath, Zev!" he hissed, hastily tugging the fabric over his wife's shoulder. "I forgot you were – you should have _said – _anyway. Come on, Flo – I think we'd better retire to our tent."

Flora reluctantly withdrew her hand, instead gripping Alistair's fingers as he led her towards their tent.

"Night, _mi florita," _the elf murmured as she wandered past him, barefoot in the grass.

"Night, night," Flora croaked back dazedly, wanting nothing more than to have her best friend _at that very moment. _She did not know what had brought on this sudden tide of lust – possibly it was part of the general unbalancing of her body due to the baby – but it was a far more welcome side-effect than the nausea or the indigestion.

Alistair was already unbuttoning his breeches as he followed in her wake; loosing the last button while ducking into the privacy of the tent. As the entrance flap dropped, his breeches were thrust impatiently down around his strong thighs; olive buttocks contracting in preparation.

Zevran, holding his breath but knowing that he was as silent as a cat in his movements regardless, crept around to his own tent. In similar manner to the previous night, he had positioned his quarters directly behind the newlyweds' tent.

To his surprise, the distinct sound of bodies moving frantically together was already filtering through the canvas. Flora was clearly trying to muffle her whimpers of pleasure; his rhythmic grunts escaped through tightly gritted teeth. The couple continued in such a manner until she let out a trembling, throaty sound that was half-wail and half-sob. There followed a brief pause while they changed position, and then the slick, percussive rhythm of wet flesh colliding began again. The king was having a more difficult time concealing his pleasure in this round; his soft, low moans carrying on the cool night air. The former brother and sister-warden climaxed together this time, breathing heavily in each other's arms.

Kissing followed for the next short while; gradually accompanied by the unmistakable sound of conjoined loins.

"_ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!"_

The reprimand split through the night air, loud and authoritative. It came from the only person in the company brave enough to issue orders to a king and queen; an old lady of the Circle who had known them when they were both humble, inexperienced and virginal warden-recruits.

"Now, I'm no _prude," _Wynne continued, her stern words easily able to penetrate the layers of thick canvas. "But _three times _in a night is, frankly, _excessive._ You both need to get sufficient rest!"

"Wynne! They are _newlyweds." _Zevran sprang to the royal couple's defence. "They are young and beautiful. Let them enjoy themselves!"

Alistair let out a groan, while Flora hid a sudden fit of laughter against his chest.

"Sorry. I… I suppose I got carried away. Wait, I can't believe you're all _listening!"_

"I didn't intend to, believe me," Teagan offered grimly from his tent on the other side of the campfire. "It seems that a _single_ pair of earplugs won't be sufficient."

The king gave an embarrassed cough, and his queen whispered something unintelligible to him.

"Right," Alistair said, clearing his throat and retaking control of the conversation. "Fine! I swear to the Maker that I won't lie with my brand new, bloody gorgeous wife for the rest of the night_. _I hope you all feel _bad!"_

* * *

The next morning, Alistair was determinedly chatty; resolved not to be self-conscious about engaging in a wholly natural activity with his Chantry-blessed partner. Flora, who had found the whole episode hilarious, kept dissolving into laughter over her spiced eggs.

"You're _incorrigible_, child," Wynne said sternly as the tents were being loaded onto the wagons. "I don't know where you get the energy from."

"I don't know, either," Flora replied, shifting position on the toppled log and taking a long gulp of water. "I had a sudden _urge _when we were sitting by the campfire last night. I LUNGEDat him. We almost did it in front of Zevran."

"I'm sure the elf wouldn't have minded," the mage commented, drily. "Anyway, it's not unusual for women in your condition to experience such… _sudden cravings. _Bouts of uncontrollable lust, if you will."

"Ooh," the queen replied covetously, eyeing Alistair as he helped Ser Gilmore manhandle a bundle of heavy canvas into the back of a wagon. "Really? It's _normal? _He's so handsome. I wish we could go back to bed NOW."

"Close your mouth, my dear. You look like one of the Mabari slathering over some meat."

"I _feel _like one of the Mabari slathering over some meat!"

Rejoining the Imperial Highway, the company followed the ancient route for the next few hours. They had made good time along the West Road, but would soon be diverting along a tributary route to the south-east, where Leonas Bryland's abandoned seat of South Reach lay. The weather was fair to middling; the sun occasionally bothered to drift out from behind a curtain of cloud. Flora – who had burnt yesterday – was grateful for the cool reprieve.

Soon after, they descended from the elevated highway and began following a dirt trail, lined with prickly bushes on both sides. Once the company had reached a circular clearing, Wynne, Ser Gilmore, Teagan and Alistair dismounted to inspect the map once more. Their compass seemed to be malfunctioning; it insisted stubbornly that the north lay in the direction that the sun had risen earlier. The map had an unhelpful ink blotch across the juncture they were seeking, and nobody could quite agree on the direction of travel.

After several minutes of discussion, Alistair and Teagan elected to ride swiftly around a copse of woods to see what lay beyond. Ser Gilmore and the scout would climb to the top of a nearby ridge to gain an elevated view of their surroundings. The rest of the company would remain within the sun-dried patch of grass, surrounded by waist high tangles of butter-yellow gorse and blushing lavender.

After letting Flora gently down into the arms of a guard, Alistair shifted position on the saddle and squinted off towards the small wood, spread sparsely over the next hillside.

"Right," he said, gathering the reins in one hand and returning his gaze to his barefoot wife. "I'll be back shortly, my love."

The king's gaze swung over to Zevran, who was leaning against a mossy boulder and fiddling idly with the leather strap around the hilt of his blade. Feeling the heat of Alistair's stare, the elf inclined his head a fraction.

_Worry not, my friend. No harm will come to her while she is with me._

Alistair and Teagan cantered off towards the small copse of woods, their horses glad to pick up the pace after days of ambling along at a plod. The scouts and Ser Gilmore made for the hill, dismounting to lead their own steeds along a narrow, fern-lined trail.

Wynne sat down on Zevran's mossy boulder and took out her half-completed letter to Irving, perusing what she had written to ensure that it made good sense. Zevran read over her shoulder for a few moments and rapidly grew bored; returning his eyes to where Flora had been standing. She was no longer there, and the elf's heart stopped for a fraction of a second.

Seconds later, his sharp eyes spotted the top of her crimson head, clashing against a clump of butter-coloured gorse. Flora was kneeling down within the bushes, plucking the small flowers and storing them in a leather pouch.

Zevran sauntered towards her, taking several deep breaths to calm his nerves.

"_Mi sirenita," _he purred, inching his way through the bristling gorse bushes. "You gave me palpitations. I thought you had run away."

"I don't think I could run anywhere," Flora replied, sucking her finger after pricking it on an errant thorn. "I'm collecting the flowers. Mab – the midwife – told me that gorse tea was good for the baby."

She showed him a cupped palmful of yellow petals, several drifting to the mossy soil as she unfurled her fingers.

"Ah! I admit, all herbal teas smell and taste the same to me. Like diluted grass. There are _better_ uses for herbs."

Flora snickered, since she was not particularly a fan of tea either. Still, she tipped the palmful into the leather pouch and continued to strip the bushes of their flowers. Zevran went to assist, his elegant fingers far more skilled at extracting the petals without getting pricked. They worked in tandem for several minutes, until Flora's leather pouch was overflowing.

"How do you spell gorse? Is it like _horse?" _she asked as they sidled their way back through the bushes, pollen dust leaving steaks of yellow on their trousers.

"_Sí, mi florita. _It is very similar."

"H-o-r-s?"

"And an _E."_

"_G-o-r-s-e," _Flora breathed, trying to envision the shapes of the letters in her mind. "Huh."

Once they had negotiated their way out of the waist-high bushes, she went to the cart where her leather pack was stored; leaning in to tuck the pouch into a side pocket. Zevran returned to the faded grass, sprawling himself out beneath the midday sun. Now that the early cloud had burnt off, the day was turning out to be far finer than the gloomy morning had suggested.

For several minutes, Flora watched Wynne writing her letter, a touch wistful at how swift and fluent the senior enchanter scribed her sentences. Realising that she was growing envious, she turned away and wandered back to the bushes. Zevran brushed his fingers over her bare ankle as she passed; proving that the elf was equally alert prostrate as he was standing.

"Don't go too far, _nena."_

Flora nodded, stepping over his legs and heading to the waist-high clumps of lavender that sprung joyfully upwards at the edge of the clearing. The sun bore down with increasing intensity, and she turned her back on it, reaching forwards to finger the dusty violet blossoms. The soft, gentle hum of bumblebees rose from the bushes; at least a half-dozen fat, striped creatures hovering about the perfumed herb.

Flora watched them for a moment, fascinated by their erratic, lurching flight. She wondered if Morrigan was able to turn into a bumblebee. Tentatively, she held out a finger to coax one of the insects onto her palm; they all ignored her.

Almost an hour later, there came the sound of hoofbeats thudding dully against grass. Teagan and Alistair had returned from scouting out the far side of the woods, and based on their perplexed and frustrated faces, their mission had been unsuccessful.

After dismounting and watering his horse, Alistair tied its reins to a tree stump and reached for his own waterpouch. Draining the contents, he swung his gaze across the bush-lined clearing, his furrowed brow easing as he set eyes on his wife. She was standing amidst the lavender, a sprig of it held to her nose.

"Did you see anything?" Flora asked as he approached, lowering the scented bundle.

The king bent his head to kiss his queen on the mouth; passing a brief palm over the top of her head.

"Not a thing," he said, with a little shrug of frustration. "The wood ends in a cliff dropping down to a stream, which is definitely not the right direction."

"The scouts might have more luck," Flora offered, smiling up at him.

Alistair nodded, unable to stop himself from smiling back down at her.

"Flora, surrounded by flowers," Alistair continued, struck by sudden inspiration. "Hey, isn't _Flora _Ancient Tevene for _flower?"_

Flora shot him a slightly bemused stare, unsure why he would assume that she had any knowledge of _Ancient Tevene. _Alistair's smile widened into a grin, and he reached down to pluck a stem of lavender from her fingers; sliding it gently into her hair.

"Beautiful girl."

After a short while, the scouts and Ser Gilmore returned down the hillside trail, their faces equally grim. At first those waiting in the clearing below assumed that the men had been unsuccessful and that the company was still hopelessly lost. Then those waiting below saw the pallor on their faces; the slight tremor in their legs as they made their way down to the clearing.

"We've found the path," Ser Gilmore said, gulping down several mouthfuls of water. "It's just over the hill. There's a lower road that the carts can follow, to the west."

"And what _else _did you find?" asked Wynne quietly, rolling up her letter to Irving. "Your faces have a strange pallor to them, gentlemen."

"What the Darkspawn left behind," replied one of the scouts, in a low and sombre voice. "It's… well. You'll have to come and see for yourself."

Flora saw Alistair's eyes move from her, then across to the cart, and_ knew _what he was about to say.

"I'm coming up as well," she breathed, a steeliness in her tone that brokered no argument. "I want to see."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol pregnancy hormones! Flora has never had much impulse control so she's pretty doomed, hahaha.
> 
> In terms of where they are at the moment, if you google a map of Ferelden, the company is on the road just to the north-west of the "S" of South Reach!


	82. Return To South Reach

Wynne elected to accompany the guards, Mabari hounds and Bann Reginalda on the lower road, unsure of her capability to climb the hill. They were accompanied by the carts and the horses, who would have struggled with the steepness of the ascent. The others began to climb the narrow trail; a single-file dirt path which wended its way through the gorse and lavender bushes.

A quarter of the way up, Flora felt a twinge of protest from her knee. She came to a halt, having learnt her lesson about overstraining her weakest joint. Alistair also stopped in his tracks a pace behind – he had been watching each of her footsteps like an eagle, prepared to grab his wife if she lost her balance.

"Darling, want some help?"

Flora nodded, swivelling around and reaching out. Bracing his knees, Alistair hoisted her up onto his waist; she wrapped her legs around his hips and her arms about his neck. He took a moment to grow accustomed to this new imbalance of weight, then kept determinedly treading his way up the hill.

"Are you feeling equally generous, Bann Guerrin?" Zevran whispered to Teagan, who gave a snort in response. "I'll reward you _amply _later."

"I think you'll be fine, elf," replied the bann drily, brushing a sprig of gorse from his lean, leather-clad thigh.

The scout reached the top of the hill first, coming to a pause on the grassy ridge and shielding his eyes from the sun. Teagan and Zevran arrived almost simultaneously; moments later, the bann inhaled an unsteady gulp of air.

"By the void!"

Even Zevran was uncharacteristically quiet, his coal-black eyes in pinpricks of focus as they swept across the terrain. He glanced sideways at Teagan, who had put a hand to his head in disbelief.

Alistair appeared over the rise of the hill shortly afterwards, a flush warming the cool olive tone of his skin. Flora planted a grateful kiss on his cheek and gave a wriggle; he let her down gently onto the grass.

"Uncle, you look like you've seen a ghost," he started, striding in Flora's wake as she headed towards the apex of the rise. "You're making me _nerv- "_

He came to an abrupt halt beside the bann, stopping at the top of the ridge. Flora had also frozen in her tracks, her pale eyes expanding in dismay.

Before them stretched miles of what would have been a typical Fereldan pastoral scene: rolling hills, farmland and the occasional copse of woods. The fields were a patchwork of mottled green and gold; crossed with streams like strips of navy ribbon.

Yet this bucolic terrain had been carved brutally in two by an ugly strip of land at least a half-mile wide that divided fields, severed streams and demolished woodland. The soil had been churned up into a maelstrom of blackened, poisonous mud, clouds of yellowish miasma drifting over the fetid mire. It stretched into the horizon for as far as the eye could see; nearer to them, it ended in a great mass of loose mud, where the horde had burrowed their way back underground. Remnants of farmhouses and steadings – little more than rubble – rose from the oozing soil. Any other traces of civilisation within its reach had been obliterated by the Darkspawn army as they streamed north.

"Have to erase those two villages there," murmured Ser Gilmore to the speechless bann, making a gesture towards the map. "They've gone."

"Maker's Breath," breathed Alistair, astounded and horrified in equal measure. "And this goes south as far as Ostagar?"

"One would assume so," Teagan replied, softly. "Via South Reach and Lothering. Over a hundred miles."

Flora had last set eyes on a Blighted stretch of land months prior, on their journey to the Brecilian Forest. Confronted with the ravaged landscape, she had shrieked in rage and plunged down the hill; snatching up the nearest hard object and hurling it at a stray Darkspawn that had fallen behind the rest of the horde.

Now - eight months later - the new queen reacted with no less anger. She let out a sound that was part-fury and part-shock; colour rushing up her neck to flood her face with a great wash of crimson. The others turned to look at her, startled at such vehement anger from their gentle and compassionate companion.

"_They've destroyed _everything!" Flora wailed, caught up in a sudden bout of irrational despair. "It's – it's all _tainted. How dare they!"_

She quivered on the spot, impotent and furious; a storm-tossed ship in a bottle. Having no enemy to take out her anger on – there was no Hurlock present to batter with a frying pan – Flora instead turned her anger on herself.

"_I_ should have ended the Blight sooner," she continued, her voice trembling with every word. "I should have called the armies sooner. Killed the Archdemon more... more quickly. Then there wouldn't be so much of this – this – _poisoned land! And I can't even purify it any mo-o-ore!"_

"Darling- " started Alistair in alarm, reaching towards her. Flora side-stepped him, shifting frantically from foot to foot as the colour in her cheeks deepened.

"What about all the people who lived _there!" _she wailed, waving an arm in the vague direction of the Blight scar. "If I'd killed the Archdemon earlier, they might still be alive!"

They could practically see the pulse racing in Flora's throat, her eyes wide and bright with guilt. Yet again, the realisation of her own new uselessness hit her like a lead mantle; and she put her hands over her face, letting out a choked sob.

"You need to calm her down," Teagan murmured to Alistair, who was already striding anxiously towards his wife. "The stress could cause her to go into premature labour; if humans are anything like horses."

Alistair's face contorted in horror, his fingers clamping around Flora's trembling arms.

"My love, sit with me," he entreated, sinking down to the grass and bringing his best friend with him, drawing her onto his lap. When he wrapped his arms around Flora, he could feel her still quivering in rage, her heart racing against his chest.

"Come on, baby. Deep breaths, now."

Flora inhaled unsteadily and then let out a painful, hacking cough; for a moment, he thought she was going to be sick.

"_Please, _Flo. It's not _healthy_ for you to get so upset."

The note of desperation in her husband's tone punctuated the red veil of anger and guilt, and Flora curled her fingers against his shoulder. When she turned her tearful face towards him, Alistair ducked his head and kissed her damp cheek with gentle concern, his own fingers seeking out hers.

To his relief, Alistair could feel her frantic heartbeat gradually begin to slow. He murmured half-intelligible comfort into her ear, stroking a palm up and down her back as he felt the baby fidget within her belly.

Teagan crouched down beside Alistair, eye-level with Flora's sad face as she rested her chin on her husband's shoulder.

"Petal, you performed a miracle ending the Blight as quickly as you did," he said, soft and earnest. "Nobody could have asked for more."

Zevran had been standing back in deference to Alistair; on seeing Teagan going to offer his reassurance, the elf decided that he was not going to be left out. He too went to Flora's side, nudging her cheek with a finger and making a quick gesture behind him.

"_Carina, _do not spend overlong looking at that forlorn strip of land. It is but a _strip_, in a land that is still fertile and ripe for harvest. A man is neither defined, nor _weakened_ by his scars, after all."

Flora nodded quietly, feeling the tears drying in place on her cheeks. Zevran's words were sweet and thoughtful, and she appreciated Teagan's reassurance; yet most comforting of all was the gentle, measured stroke of her best friend's palm along the length of her back.

"Yes," she whispered, suddenly embarrassed at her own outburst. "I'm sorry. Thank you, everyone."

A relieved Alistair cupped the back of her head lightly in his palm, stroking his thumb around her ear.

"My lovely Lo," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her tear-stained nose. "I understand why you're angry. I'm furious too, but – you can't blame yourself. We… we did our best, didn't we?"

She nodded silently, curling her arms about his neck.

* * *

They made their way down the hill, quiet and contemplative. From the vantage point, they had been able to see the correct road wending its way southwards. At the bottom of the hill, they met up with the other half of the party; who took in Flora's pale, tear-stained face and said very little.

The isolated, exposed bluff of South Reach was now visible on the distant horizon, emerging like some great prehistoric creature rising up from the earth. They could just about see the silhouette of the Bryland castle perched at the apex of the granite peak. The road ran south towards it, straight as a dart, running parallel to the Blight-scar. To everyone's relief, the corrupted soil was mostly hidden from view by trees, or by the curvature of the land. Nobody wanted to look at it too long, lest it brand itself irredeemably into their memory.

Bann Reginalda left them at a junction in the road, taking a narrow trail east towards her bannorn of White River. Teagan offered to escort the bann to where her retainers were meeting her; Reginalda laughed and offered a derisive refusal.

"Lad, I was riding the hills of the bannorn when you were but a young rake carousing in Ansburg! I'll be fine, I promise you."

Before she left, the bann drew her horse alongside Alistair's saddle, tapping Flora firmly on the thigh. Flora had been hunched into Alistair's chest, despondent, for the past few hours. At the bann's touch, she looked up with pink-edged eyes.

"Stop _sulking,_ young Florence," the bann told her, gentle but firm. "It's a single strip of land, in a nation three hundred miles wide. If not for you and your husband, the entire country would have been Blighted from Denerim to the Frostbacks."

Flora nodded, wiping her nose unceremoniously on her sleeve. Behind her, she could feel her husband slumping in the saddle with weariness and dejection; as Ferelden's new king, he took its wounds as personally as one inflicted on his own body. Thrusting away her own frustration and anger, she turned her attention on Alistair, running her thumb over his knuckles and sitting up a little straighter to prompt the same from him.

The sun began to sink into the horizon, flooding the scarred landscape with shades of mellow umber, ochre and nectarine. Wisps of rose-coloured cloud manifested in the fading light, delicate as a lady's gossamer-thin nightgown. The first faint pinpricks of starlight peeked through the veil of cloud; a prelude to the encroaching lushness of night.

The company reached South Reach just as the moon rose from behind the eastern hills. The great rocky bluff rose up like the back of an armadillo from the grasslands; the buildings of the town clinging to the steep slope. The fortress-castle sat at the crown of the rise, squat, broad and ugly.

The king's party did not attempt to ascend the rise, instead making a wide circle around it to reach the base of the cliffs. The South Reach restoration committee had moved into an abandoned farm in the shadow of the bluff, converting the buildings and outhouses into basic accommodation and storage space. Although Leonas Bryland had not yet been able to visit his beleaguered seat due to taking charge of the Royal Army, he had no intention of neglecting South Reach. Dozens of carts filled with resources and building tools had been sent from Denerim over the past month; there was barely enough room in the farm courtyard for the company to leave their own wagons.

Several members of the South Reach restoration committee came out to greet the Royal party as they arrived. The interim mayor – whose predecessor had been killed in the flight from South Reach – stood at the forefront of a small crowd that had gathered in the courtyard. He was a bulky man named Silas, who had once made a living as a blacksmith.

Flora could feel Alistair barely disguising a yawn in the saddle behind her, her best friend taking a deep breath as he sat up straighter and prepared to greet the crowd. She could feel the weariness exuding from him as a pulse of dejected tiredness; the scar carved across his nation still at the forefront of his mind.

"Your majesties," the interim mayor breathed with blatant nervousness, bowing deeply as the king descended from the saddle and reached up to help down his queen. "Thank you for coming. It's our honour to welcome the King – and the _Hero of Ferelden."_

This last cognomen was breathed with a slight tinge of awe. There followed a brief ripple of appreciation from the crowd, especially once they caught sight of Flora's swollen stomach. They nudged each other in shock both at the sheer _size _of her belly, and the realisation that she must have been heavy with child even when fighting the Archdemon itself.

Flora heard Alistair take one more deep, steadying breath and knew that he was about to ask how the initial survey of South Reach had gone; whether it was possible to venture up there tonight; what condition Arl Bryland's castle was in. Her best friend had always had a rigid sense of duty, following it even against his own best interests.

"We're honoured to be here," she said quietly, before Alistair could speak. "And keen to see the condition of the town. South Reach was where we gathered the support of the banns and arls before travelling to Denerim. But, if you don't mind, we'll do so _tomorrow_ morning. I don't feel well from the journey, and… I need to rest."

"Aye, and the king must attend to his wife. I'm sure you understand," Teagan added, and Flora shot him a grateful look.

The interim mayor hastened to assure them that _of course _that was fine, that South Reach was not going anywhere. As he led them inside the main farmhouse building, Flora could feel Alistair's anxious eyes on her back. Once Zevran, Teagan, Wynne and the other members of the company had been housed in rustic, but comfortable, quarters; the blacksmith-turned-mayor led Alistair and Flora up to what once must have been the chief farmer's own quarters. They were decorated in a plain, rural style with dark furniture and white-plastered walls, exposed beams running across the ceiling. Some effort had been put in to make it more aesthetically pleasing; a vase of flowers stood on the dresser and a threadbare fur rug had been thrown across the bed. A trembling youth with the features of the mayor brought in several candles, scattering them about the horizontal surfaces to light the room.

"Sorry the accommodation isn't very fancy, your majesties," the mayor explained as he showed them inside the reasonably-sized chamber. "We haven't got much here, yet."

"Thank you very much," said the polite Flora in her soft, solemn northern tones; flashing father and son a rare public smile. "We look forward to seeing what you've accomplished in the morning. Would you be able to bring up something to eat?"

The door closed and they were finally alone, for the first time since early that morning. Alistair, ignoring his own tiredness in the light of his concern, immediately reached out to touch the side of Flora's face tenderly.

"Darling, you don't feel well?" he breathed, anxiety running through each word. "What's wrong?"

Flora reached up to cover his hand with her own, clasping their fingers tight together.

"I'm fine," she reassured her best friend, leading him with a gentle yet firm grasp over to the bed. "_You_ need to rest. It's been a long day, and I made you carry me – A SMALL PONY – up the side of a _mountain."_

Alistair laughed – intensely received that she was not genuinely feeling unwell – and leaned back on the lumpen mattress with a sigh.

"It wasn't a mountain, my love. And you're not a small pony."

He dragged a sleepy hand over his face, rumpling up the golden hair. Flora reached down to pull off his boots one at a time, tutting at him when he tried to assist.

"Lie down, husband," she instructed him firmly, giving his chest a gentle push.

The pressure of her small hand against the broad span of muscle was negligible, but Alistair still leaned back obediently against the square linen cushions. The scarred landscape was still writ bare across the king's features; he seemed years older than he had done when they had left camp that morning.

"As you wish, my own sweet wife." He smiled at her, eyes bruised with mingled tiredness and affection.

Flora shuffled about the chamber, ignoring the twinge in her own knee as she drew the curtains and poked vaguely at the hearth with the poker. A flagon of ale had been set out with two tankards on the dresser; she poured one out and brought it carefully over to the bed. The exhausted Alistair was already snoring against the cushions, his spread-eagled limbs taking up the majority of the mattress.

Flora had just placed the flagon gently atop the bedside table, when there came a knock at the door. Nostrils flaring in a manner reminiscent of Leliana, she scuttled across the room; determined to stop_ anything_ from disturbing her weary husband.

To her dismay, the sound had not heralded the arrival of dinner. Instead, Teagan was hovering in the corridor, which was patrolled by a single yawning guard. Flora opened the door wider and eyeballed him suspiciously, positioning her fat-bellied body between the bann and the bedroom.

"Ah," he started; easily able to see over the top of Flora's head. "Is Alistair asleep? I was going to go over the schedule for tomorrow with him."

Flora's face now resembled a particularly belligerent mule, and it was clear that Teagan would have to bodily remove her to enter the room and disturb the sleeping king.

The bann smiled wryly down at her, and lifted both hands in surrender.

"Alright, poppet, don't fret. I won't disturb him. I hope – at some point - I can find a wife who guards my wellbeing as fervently."

Flora's ferocious expression softened and she stepped forward, patting her fingers gently on his elbow.

"I'm _sure _you will," she breathed, gazing up at him in earnest as the door swung shut behind her. "Tell me what we're doing tomorrow and I'll tell him later."

Teagan nodded, offering Flora his arm as he spotted her favouring one knee over the other. Together, they headed to a bench positioned outside the room that had been assigned to Zevran. The bann let her down gently, knowing that the long day's journey must have taken its toll on her weak limb.

Flora sat down and stuck her bare, swollen feet out into the corridor, eyeing the sore patches of skin that had been aggrieved by her leather boots. The baby woke up and stretched it's limbs against the confines of her stomach; the movement shifting beneath the thin lambs' wool of her tunic. Flora patted it, tracing the outline of a rounded head with her thumb.

"This is the wrong time for you to be awake," she said sternly, gazing down at the quivering tunic. "I want to try and sleep soon."

Teagan stared down at the small ripples against her stomach, reluctantly fascinated. Flora caught a glimpse of his curious face, and nudged her elbow gently into his ribs.

"Haven't you seen that before?"

"Only with horses, pet. It's not quite the same."

"What about Lady Isolde, when she was heavy with Connor?"

Teagan let out a soft laugh - considerate of the dark shadows beneath Wynne's door - then gave another wry shake of the head.

"Isolde favours Orlesian gowns, which all tend to have about sixteen layers of ruffles. A regiment of soldiers could be performing troop manoeuvres under her skirts and we'd be none the wiser."

Flora smiled at the bann, then impulsively reached for his wrist; lifting his hand onto the curve of her stomach.

"Give him a tap," she suggested, and Teagan rapped his fingers lightly against the firm flesh.

There was a pause, and then the bann's eyebrows rose into his auburn hairline as he felt a responding nudge against his palm.

"Maker's Breath," he commented, astounded. "It could feel my touch?"

Flora nodded, an irrationally proud beam spreading over her face.

"He can hear us talking," she added, and the bann let out a soft laugh of wonder; tapping on her stomach once more. The baby responded with a kick so hearty that Flora gave a little grunt, and Teagan flinched.

"By Andraste – that's as strong as a kick from a Fereldan Forder! Eight weeks left of growing, yes?"

Flora nodded, wondering if it were possible for her body to be bruised from the _inside._ Teagan withdrew his hand, thoughtful and astonished in equal measure.

"Do you think it's a boy, then? You said, '_he'."_

"In Herring, they believe that if you've got a desire for oily fish, it's a boy," Flora explained, wide-eyed. "And I've been wanting nothing but _sardines _since we left Denerim. I've eaten half our stock already!"

Although it was just village superstition, based on nothing but hearsay and old wives' tales; when looking at Flora's solemn face in that moment, Teagan believed her. Both of them looked down at her twitching stomach, at the child who had survived werewolves in the Brecilian Forest, Arl Howe's treachery at Fort Drakon, multiple assaults by the Darkspawn and - ultimately – the wrath of an Archdemon. They were well aware of what the baby represented to the people of Ferelden, the townspeople of Denerim had wagered heavy coin on birth, weight, name and sex. It was a symbol of new life in the face of despair; of fertility, rejuvenation, and hope for the future.

_It's a lot for one small baby to cope with, _Flora thought, tracing the outline of the child's spine. _I'm sure you'll be fine, though. You've got Herring grit in your veins, just like me._

Teagan cleared his threat, quashing his sentimentality as he lifted her eyes to his face.

"So, tomorrow's schedule."

The bann relayed to her the information passed on by the South Reach mayor; Flora repeated each point until she had memorised the plan for the day.

"Thank you," she said at last, smiling up at him. "I'll tell Alistair when he wakes up. I think I'm going to eat a snack and then go to bed."

"That sounds like a sound plan," Teagan started, and then stopped abruptly as horizontal lines furrowed across his forehead.

Flora also tilted her head, attention caught by the same noise. There was a rhythmic thudding from the chamber behind them – a periodic collision of wood against wall – that could only be the sound of a vigorously used double bed.

"My room had better not be next door to the bloody elf," Teagan muttered, shooting a dark look over his shoulder at Zevran's chamber. "I wonder who he's got in there with him?"

Flora pushed herself upright, sidling across the corridor and coming to a halt before the occupied chamber door.

"Goodnight, Zevran," she breathed quietly against the wood, underestimating the sharpness of the elf's hearing. The frantic creaking came to a halt, there was a brief moment of silence, and then Zevran opened the door. He was entirely naked, save for a steel helmet positioned strategically over his manhood.

Teagan groaned and put a hand over his eyes, as Flora kept her own gaze diplomatically above the elf's neckline.

"I was just saying goodnight," she said, trying to resist the temptation to look beyond Zevran's lean, sinewy shoulder and see who was in the bed. "I'm sorry to disturb you."

"Nonsense," he breathed, tilting his tattooed cheek to one side in expectation. "I need my goodnight kiss, _carina, _or I will have frightful nightmares."

He smiled at her, and there was a faint cast of truth over the rich darkness of his irises.

"Sometimes I envy your dreamless slumber, _mi corazon."_

Flora pressed her lips to one cheek and then the other, just as it was done in both Antiva and Orlais. Then, impulsively, she hooked an elbow around his neck and gave him a one-armed hug; trying not to dislodge the helmet. He embraced her back, beaming at her as he tucked a slender platinum braid behind his ear.

"See you in the morning, _nena."_

As the elf's door closed, Flora mouthed a silent _goodnight _towards the senior enchanter's chamber; the audible snores indicating that Wynne was already fast asleep. Feeling her knee twinge – a warning that she needed to take the weight off – she went to say goodnight to Teagan.

"Thank you for coming with us," she said gravely, her pale eyes searching his face. "We appreciate you being here."

"I was getting itchy feet behind the city walls," Teagan replied, wondering whether to peck her cheek goodnight. Instead – as part of his efforts to act more _avuncular_ – he reached out and ruffled her hair, slightly awkward.

"Goodnight, Bann Teagan," Flora said, smiling up at him bemusedly. "See you in the morning."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I couldn't find much lore about what land looks like after it's been Blighted, so I just sort of made it up, hehe. I'm looking forward to having them go back to South Reach – they did spend about forty chapters there while gathering noble support. Those were fun chapters to write!
> 
> Also, do we think there's any truth in Flora's Herring old wives' tail, about the oily fish? Hehehehe


	83. The Sad Remains Of South Reach

Back inside the bedchamber, Flora pottered around for several minutes; relighting the candles that had gone out and adding another log to the hearth. Alistair was still snoring on the bed, flat on his back and fully dressed. While Teagan had been detailing tomorrow's schedule, a tray of bread and cheese had been left on top of the dresser by helpful servants. Flora used the knife provided to cut several thick slices from the loaf, and then placed flat squares of cheese between the slices to create a sandwich.

Tearing off a ragged chunk of bread for herself, she clenched it between her teeth and wandered across to the bed with the sandwich in hand. Sitting down on the mattress, Flora cast a fond look down at her best friend; his powerful, prostrate frame resembling a Tevinter statue toppled by the elements.

"I love you so much," she whispered impulsively, reaching out to pat his flung-out hand. "Brother-warden."

Alistair grunted, some barely conscious part of his mind registering her words. His fingers curled upwards to reflexively seek out hers; a moment later, he gave a yawn and stretched back against the cushions. One eye opened, and then the other, blinking away the bleariness of sleep.

"Darling," he mumbled, disorientated. "What time is it? Did I oversleep?"

Flora shook her head, rubbing her thumb over the calloused knuckles of his hand.

"It's still the evening. Do you want a sandwich?"

Alistair pushed himself up against the cushions, stifling a yawn as he smiled dazedly at her.

"Eh! I'm always disorientated after I wake up from a nap. And I'd _love_ a sandwich, my love."

Flora retrieved the sandwich from her lap and handed it to him, brushing away residual crumbs from her legs.

"Thank you, baby."

Alistair carefully divided the sandwich into two equal parts with strong fingers, handing half back to her. Flora took it, and then crawled up the bed to sit beside him, leaning against the cushions at his side. He ducked his head to press a kiss to her hair, and then they ate their sandwiches in comfortable, companionable silence. Flora dozed off shortly afterwards, her head resting on his shoulder.

* * *

She was submerged in her peculiar, dreamless slumber for an indeterminate amount of time. When she awoke, their austere quarters were dark and cold. The hearth had burned down to its ashes and the candles were blown out by the draught; there were no Royal servants awake to relight them.

Flora blinked, acclimatising her eyes to the soft, bruised well of shadows that flooded the room. In her sleep, she had slithered down onto the mattress and now – rolling over - she could see Alistair sitting up against the cushions. Her former brother-warden was staring unseeingly into the darkness, the day's stubble spreading dark across his cheeks. As Flora's vision clarified in small increments, she recognised the dull light of anger in Alistair's hardened hazel stare. It was the same vengeful, bitter look that had settled across his handsome face periodically during the Blight; usually after they had witnessed some wanton piece of devastation inflicted by the Darkspawn.

_This is because of the Blight-scar from earlier, _Flora realised, pushing herself up against the cushions. _He didn't show his anger then because I was hysterical and he needed to calm me down._

Usually sensitive to Flora's every movement, Alistair was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he had not even noticed that she was awake and staring at him. For all intent and purpose he was not in bed beside her, but wandering the ravaged terrain of the Blighted land, taking in the abandoned farmhouses, the ruined villages and the poisoned soil. When he inhaled, it was an unsteady and laboured gasp of air; as though his lungs were filling with tainted miasma. Despite being king for only a few months, he felt every Darkspawn-inflicted wound on Ferelden as acutely as a laceration on his own body.

Flora had not seen her best friend in this state for several months, regardless, she recognised it well enough. It did not matter that they no longer shared the corrupted blood; that the Archdemon was dead and the Blight ended; in that moment, she was Alistair's sister-warden once again.

She slid an arm around her husband's shoulders and let her breath warm his cold skin, her lips brushing against his ear. Instead of speaking, she kissed his neck; slender, nail-bitten fingers curling into his shirt. The king let out a soft exhalation, his queen's mouth coaxing him back to the present with each insistent press of her lips.

As Flora touched her tongue to Alistair's collarbone, he once more faced the choice between brooding over the day's events, or focusing on his wife's affectionate caresses. He had never before chosen the former, and tonight was no exception. Blinking, he gazed at the top of Flora's dishevelled, dark red head and reached down to stroke her cheek.

"Did… did I wake you, my love?"

"No," she replied, pressing her lips to the hard muscle of his chest. "I woke myself up. You can't sleep?"

"I tried," Alistair said, quietly. "I kept tossing and turning. I couldn't get what we saw earlier out of my head. I can _still _see it when I close my eyes. All that ruined land, the destroyed buildings."

Flora had suspected as much, and wondered which of her various methods of comfort to employ. Alistair never failed to be distracted by the movements of their child, but the baby had gone to sleep several hours earlier. She thought about whispering reassurance into his ear; but realised that she would simply be repeating his own thoughts back to him. The rational part of Alistair's mind was well aware that it was only a _fraction_ of Ferelden that had been poisoned by Blight, that thousands of acres of arable land still remained, that the nation had been exceptionally lucky; yet, all he could see at that moment were the two obliterated villages that the scout had crossed out from the map.

Instead, Flora decided to use a tool of distraction that had never let her down in the past. Shifting slightly on the mattress, she reached up to fiddle with the buttons of her tunic. When Alistair glanced down at her a moment later, Flora gazed innocuously back up at him with one ripe, swollen breast exposed. The paleness of her skin contrasted with the blushing, rosy shade at its peak.

"Do you think my nipple is the size of a silver coin, now?" she asked, wide-eyed and earnest. "Last time we measured back in Denerim, it was the size of a copper."

"I… I don't know," Alistair replied, his gaze dropping to her breast. "I've got some coins in my pocket."

Pressing the cold metal against her nipples invariably made them stiffen. By that point, Alistair was suitably distracted from his sour mood; his tongue laving circles around one while he rolled the other between finger and thumb. Shortly afterwards, the dozing guard in the corridor was woken by the rhythmic thud of a headboard against the wall, the sound accompanied by the frantic creaking of a bed-frame.

Once they were both satiated, the newlyweds lay in each other's arms, bare-skinned and sweaty. When Flora peered up at her best friend's handsome face through the gloom, she was gratified to see that the shadows of anger had dissipated.

"Darling girl," he breathed into the darkness, stroking the back of her head with a clumsy palm. "It's… it's going to be alright, isn't it, my love?"

"Of _course_ it's going to be alright," Flora replied steadily, in the same confident tone that she had once said _of course the armies will offer us their aid. We have the Warden treaties. They can't say no. _"Ferelden will be _fine."_

* * *

The next morning, as the party rode on horseback towards the ruins of South Reach, Flora repeated her words over and over to herself.

_Of course it's going to be alright. Of course it is._

The town of South Reach clung to the back of a bluff that protruded from the surrounding plains like the shell of some submerged animal. The buildings were clustered erratically up one tapering slope, which ended in Leonas Bryland's family seat perched precariously on the apex. On the other side of the castle, steep cliffs dropped sharply to the plain below, giving the bluff an almost lop-sided appearance. The population of South Reach had evacuated at the approach of the Darkspawn, many of them cut down on the road as they attempted to flee. The great tainted swathe of land lay to the west, a black stain cutting parallel across the fields of the bannorn.

The blacksmith-turned-mayor was at the head of the party, riding a stocky bay pony. Teagan rode alongside him, while Alistair, Flora and Zevran brought up the rear. Several other men from the South Reach restoration committee accompanied them on foot. On mutual agreement over breakfast, they had all brought weapons. Alistair had cast a mistrustful eye up at the shadowed town and gone to rummage through the cart to find his best whetstone, sharpening his blade to a razor's edge.

Flora had no weapon, but was perfectly content to ride surrounded by her companions, with her husband at her back. Unfortunately, nobody else was happy with this solution; aware of how vulnerable their former healer was without her shield.

"_Mi florita,_ you need to learn how to use some sort of weapon to defend yourself," Zevran entreated, his fingers wrapping around the reins as the road gradually began to climb upwards. "The world is a dangerous place, even with the Blight ended."

"But I've tried to learn how to use a weapon, lots of times," Flora protested, feeling Alistair give a little grunt in agreement with the elf. "Your friend Isabela tried to show me how to use a dagger and I couldn't do it. Sten gave up! I was _awful._"

The elf shot her a pointed look of reprimand, one eyebrow arching upwards.

"Perhaps if you and Alistair had not ended up in bed with Isabela after twenty minutes, you might have learnt a little bit more!"

Several yards in front, Teagan nearly fell off his horse.

"You're right," Flora agreed gravely, then stifled a laugh. "Oh, dear."

Zevran continued, a slight plea in his tone to counteract the humour.

"And the Qunari was training you as though you were a seven foot tall behemoth. You are a girl of small stature, and his techniques were unsuitable; especially considering your current condition."

Flora had no idea what a _behemoth _was, and so gave a solemn nod.

"Mm, bee-moth."

"I will train you myself, _nena," _the elf continued, determinedly. "During our travels. If Alistair is amenable, of course."

"As long as you don't overexert her," replied Alistair, pressing a kiss to the back of Flora's head. "But if you can do anything to make Lo safer – I'd be eternally grateful."

The elf nodded, and then shot the royal couple a sly, sideways grin; his dark eyes flashing.

"And what if I demand the same payment as Isabela, _hm? _Which – as I recall – was a _kiss."_

"Zev," replied Alistair, without a shred of jest in his tone. "If you teach Flo something that she later uses to save her own life, I'd kiss you myself."

The elf cackled, pointing a finger marked in fading ink towards the king.

"_Done!"_

The company fell silent as they reached the edge of the town. The fields lay barren and crumbled, the soil appearing almost _burned. _The defences that the men of South Reach had constructed – wooden palisades, sandbags and pointed stakes – lay strewn about in forlorn smithereens. The Darkspawn had crashed through them like the tide would sweep away a sandcastle.

Flora swallowed, remembering how she and Wynne had watched Alistair, stripped down to the waist, building up these very defences. The men of the town had been forcedly cheerful, singing tavern songs and exchanging friendly banter as they drove the stakes into the earth.

_There are the woods where I found the wandering Darkspawn. Alistair shouted at me because I went to face them on my own._

_Ah, I was a bit of an idiot._

"As you can see, King Alistair," the mayor explained awkwardly, waving an encompassing hand. "The lower ward of the town – well. There ain't much left."

The horses proceeded up into the first part of the town, nearest where the city wall had once stood. This ward had contained mostly residential dwellings, dotted with the occasional unsavoury tavern or cheap brothel. Now, all that remained were the brutally amputated foundations; the empty outlines of where homes and livelihoods had once stood. The wooden frames and stone walls had been pillaged so thoroughly that hardly a roof tile had been left. Even the cobbled roadways were haphazardly ransacked, their stones removed to reveal bare patches of earth.

"The Darkspawn took the materials to build the siege weapons they used at Denerim," Wynne observed quietly, recalling a letter that Leonas had shown her. "But, Alistair – the air smells fresh enough."

Alistair nodded, forcing himself to lift his chin even as he clutched Flora a little more firmly about the waist.

"It doesn't seem like the taint has sunk deep into the earth," he agreed, with a small nod. "And the buildings can be raised again."

"Arl Leonas has already sent us six cartloads of materials," the mayor added, earnestly. "And he's promised labourers from his property in the Marches."

"He owns silver mines near Ansburg," Flora piped up, remembering that Fergus had once mentioned them. "And a slate quarry!"

They continued to follow the main road as it zig-zagged slowly up the sloping terrain. The mayor announced that they had now reached the middle ward, which had escaped with only minor damage. Many of the shops here had been boarded up; their owners fleeing even before the Wardens had arrived at South Reach. Flora recognised several blacksmiths, a half-dozen leatherworkers, three large taverns and myriad other businesses characteristic of a large and prosperous town. Despite the deterioration caused by months of neglect – missing tiles, broken windows and splintered door frames – their base structures appeared intact.

"This looks a lot more promising," Teagan offered as they rode past an abandoned silversmiths. "Wouldn't take more than a few weeks to get these businesses back up and running."

"So long as the original owners haven't fled to the Marches," replied Alistair, then felt Flora flinch. "Sweetheart?"

Teagan blinked, then realised that the king was talking to his wife. Flora was following Zevran's stare, down an alleyway lined with nondescript, rather ramshackle wooden housing. The elf turned, his dark eyes uncharacteristically sombre as they met Flora's anxious, pale gaze.

_That house over there was where we helped the steward's sister with the birth of her child. Zevran cut it out of her stomach and I healed her up again._

_Both her and the little baby never made it out of South Reach. I remember Arl Leonas telling me._

Flora hunched back into Alistair's chest, vaguely hearing Zevran quietly explain the significance of that particular house. Alistair inhaled unsteadily and let the reins drop, using his thighs to control the horse as he embraced her within strong arms.

"My love," he said into her hair, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Do you want to go back to the farmhouse?"

"No, no," Flora protested, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

"Darling, I _won't_ have you upset. It's not healthy for you or the baby."

"I'm fine, I'm fine! See!"

She bared her teeth at him in a vaguely terrifying grimace. Alistair stared down at her for a moment and then tightened his grip even more around her waist; reaching down to reclaim the reins.

As Flora composed herself, she distinctly heard her husband murmur an aside to Teagan, his voice low and anxious.

"Will you take my wife back if she gets upset again? I should have known this would be hard for her."

"Aye, she's a sensitive soul," Teagan replied in similarly soft tones. "Of course."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Ooh it's been a nostalgia trip so far during this chapter! I remember writing the construction of the South Reach defences chapter back in the original story – it was when Flora wandered off after hearing the call of the Darkspawn, and almost got skewered in a forest. Alistair got genuinely pissed off with her for the first time, and then they shagged in a stables. Aaaah memories!
> 
> How creepy would it be though, to travel through the ruins of an abandoned town? I did some research once on plague-villages, where entire settlements were abandoned when the Black Death killed almost the whole population. At least the upper parts of South Reach have escaped much of the devastation.


	84. The Macabre Residents Of South Reach

The eeriest part of their slow ascent was the silence. South Reach, at its apex, had been the most prosperous town in the Bannorn. With a population of eight thousand, it had almost rivalled Gwaren in size and scale. Now it had become a ghost town, with windows and doors boarded over and shop-fronts shrouded with cobwebs. Surviving windows were caked with a thick layer of dust; not even stray dogs had remained to reign over the abandoned settlement. The market square – which was more of a curved U shape, meandering around three sides of the town Chantry – was desolate, the stalls collapsed into sad piles of wood and mouldering cloth. The sound from their horses' hooves echoed about the stone walls, inappropriately loud.

"I haven't even seen any rats," murmured Wynne, clearing her throat. "Nor heard any birds."

The senior enchanter lifted a hand, and a bluish glow radiated from her fingers. Flora, still sensitive to magic being used in front of her, hastily looked away. Wynne let her hand move from side to side, waiting for any corresponding prickles of life to echo in her fingertips. A moment later she shook her head, taking up the reins once more.

"Nothing," she breathed, a frown furrowing itself into her brow. "No signs of life at all."

They had now nearly reached the highest part of the bluff, where the brutal and uncompromising Bryland fortress sat squatly, facing the distant Brecilian Forest in silent challenge. It was one of the ugliest – but most fortifiable – castles in Ferelden, famously holding out against an Orlesian siege for almost a decade.

The entrance portcullis was wedged halfway up, the rusting iron spikes at an alarming angle. The Bryland banners hanging from the outer wall had mouldered away, only a few scraps of tattered green still clinging to their brackets.

"Have you been up here before?" Teagan asked the mayor, and the elevated blacksmith shook his head.

"Didn't feel right without no noble present," he replied, hesitantly. "Y'know, like we was trespassin'."

The party rode hastily beneath the treacherous portcullis, their horses' hoof beats sending percussive echoes about the looming walls. They came to a halt in the greater of the two courtyards, dismounting and tethering the horses to a nearby bracket.

As Alistair and Teagan conferred quietly, Flora wandered into the centre of the courtyard; the memories arriving like unexpected depositions from the incoming tide.

_There's the wing where we stayed. We used to come down those steps every morning, head across the courtyard and break our fast in the great hall._

_Up there is the tower where I made the golden ship sail in the sky for Connor Guerrin._

_And over there is the lesser courtyard, with the little Chantry hewn into the bedrock of the castle._

_I met Fergus for the first time – well, for the first time in a long time – here. Leliana and I sent off the letters that summoned the armies to Denerim from Arl Bryland's rookery._

_I first realised that something was wrong with my body here. My moonblood was late and I was being sick every morning. I think I did know what was wrong, deep down, but denial was comforting._

As if on cue, the baby woke up and stretched; kicking two sturdy feet into the base of her spine. Flora put a hand to her belly, just as her name wended its way through the still air.

"Flo?"

She saw Alistair – sword and shield in hand – striding towards her, an expression of grim determination writ across his handsome features. Behind him, Teagan and the mayor were similarly armed, gazing up at the stern and inscrutable wall of the fortress.

"Sweetheart," he breathed, sheathing his sword and caressing the side of her cheek carefully with gloved fingers. "We're fetching some papers from Leonas' solar – deeds, ledgers, that sort of thing. Would you stay out here with Wynne and Zevran? We don't know what's inside."

Flora nodded, reaching up to rest her palm atop of Alistair's leather-clad fingers.

"Be careful," she instructed, feeling a twinge of sadness that she could no longer accompany him into the unknown. "Please."

Flora stood on her toes and he ducked his head to kiss her mouth, one hand dropping to caress her stomach affectionately. With Zevran and Wynne at her side, she watched her husband climb the shallow steps leading up to the castle's great hall. Teagan reached out to tug at the door and it yielded with a laborious creak, swinging outwards to reveal a well of shadow within. The men disappeared into the gloom with swords readied; the low sound of their conversation gradually fading.

"I wonder what condition the fortress is in on the inside," Wynne murmured out loud, shielding her eyes against the midday sun as she squinted up at the battlements. "It appears intact enough from out here."

"More's the pity," Zevran shot back, leaning back against the well and casting a look into its stagnant depths. "I'd forgotten how wilfully _ugly _this place was. It makes Fort Drakon look like the palace at Halamshiral."

Wynne smiled, lowering her gaze from the eastern tower.

"It wasn't designed for _aesthetic, _Zevran. Anyway, I doubt that Leonas will return here now that he's got the army to curate. His daughter, Habren, will most likely become arlessa when she comes of age."

The elf screwed up his nose, recalling the spoilt, dark-haired _arlina_ who had insisted on decorating her bedchamber in the Orlesian style.

"Ha! She'll have the entire place transformed into a Val Royeaux _chateau _in months. _Nena!"_

This was directed towards Flora, who had begun to make her way determinedly towards the lesser courtyard. Zevran and Wynne exchanged a glance, and then hurried in her wake.

"Flora, Alistair doesn't want you to go inside, remember?" Wynne reminded her, nostrils flaring. "We don't know what's been trapped within those walls."

"I know," Flora threw over her shoulder, passing beneath the archway that led to the smaller courtyard. This had once been used as a drilling area, the training dummies leaned half-rotten against one wall. The stables ran along the opposite side of the courtyard, their doors hanging open and stalls empty.

"I promise I'm not going inside," she continued, spotting the narrow archway that marked the entrance to the kitchen allotments. "I want to see what's happened to the garden I grew for Arl Leonas."

Zevran and Wynne glanced at one another, but this request seemed innocuous enough and they could think of no reason why she should not do so.

They followed in Flora's wake as she made her way alongside the thick wall of the fortress. The kitchen allotments, which had once provided South Reach with a dozen different types of vegetable, were now barren and overgrown with weeds. The runner bean poles had toppled, the berry bushes were trampled, and the herb garden was obscured entirely by a thick nest of nettles.

_I used to grab a raw carrot or potato whenever I passed through here, _Flora thought sadly to herself, avoiding a puddle of stagnant mud. _I could never resist; I didn't know why at the time._

After ten minutes, the grey stone wall that ran around the perimeter of the enclosed garden came into view. The walled rose-garden had once belonged to Leonas' wife and after her death, the grieving arl had neglected to tend to it. During the Wardens' month-long sojourn at South Reach, Flora had taken it upon herself to clear away the overgrowth and plant new seeds; prompting artificially fast growth with selective application of her rejuvenative magic.

Now, Flora approached the stone archway with some trepidation, preparing herself for the inevitable sight of her efforts gone to waste. Taking a deep breath, she rounded the corner and stepped into the garden.

Sure enough, as Flora had predicted, the garden had succumbed to disarray in the absence of any interference. The borders, which had once been an array of colourful flowers, were lost beneath a thick forest of blackthorn. The grass was buried beneath moss and creeping weed, and the peach tree was hunched over beneath its own weighty branches. The thicket of fruit trees at the bottom of the garden had been consumed with an overgrowth so thick that the orchard was a mass of shadow.

Flora swallowed, taking a deep breath and blinking back her sadness.

"It can all be pruned and replanted, child," Wynne said softly at her side. "The fact that weeds can grow in the soil shows that it's not polluted."

Flora nodded, grateful for the senior enchanter's comforting words.

"I think there's a few chrysanthemums over there," she said, determinedly. "Beneath those thorns. I'm going to see if I can get some cuttings for my garden."

_If I can grow them in the garden back in the Royal Palace, I'll give the new plants to Arl Leonas._

The time passed with a slow languor beneath the afternoon sun; mellow heat flooding into the overgrown garden and bouncing between the stone walls. Zevran found a patch of grass and prostrated himself there; Wynne used the head of her staff to clear a tangle of bramble away from a stone bench. After adding a few more sentences to Irving's letter, the senior enchanter let out a soft curse as her ink-pen broke. With a grunt of frustration, she rose to her feet; heading back towards the main courtyard to retrieve a spare.

Flora was kneeling beside the blackthorn, determined to retrieve at least a sprig or two of living chrysanthemum. She had found a shovel leaning against the withered peach tree, and had used it to create a small hole in the midst of the thorns. The baby had gone back to sleep within her belly, nestled with its rear pressed against her spine.

Just then, a flicker of movement caught the tail of her eye. It came from the thicket of trees at the bottom of the garden, and Flora felt a little twinge of alarm. Awkwardly, she clambered to her feet and squinted into the depths of gloomy undergrowth.

_Surely it can't be a Darkspawn. We haven't seen any so far._

_Who's that?_

To Flora's initial shock – and then delight – a woman rose to her feet within the tangled bushes. She was facing away from the garden, clad in a tattered blue gown and with her hair hanging in dishevelled wisps. Her arms were little more than skin and bone, and the tendons stood out sharply in her neck.

_It's a survivor! _Flora thought to herself, joyfully. _She must have stayed alive by scavenging in the gardens. It's a miracle._

"Hello," she called out earnestly, taking a step towards the woman. "Hellooo?"

"_Flora."_

The woman's head began to rotate, just as Flora heard Zevran say her name. There was a strange tautness to the elf's voice and she frowned, turning to face him.

"What?"

Her companion was standing several yards from her with every muscle in his body tensed; like some feline predator about to pounce. His pupils had constricted to tiny black dots of focused intensity, and a blade glinted in his hand.

"Do not move, _carina," _he murmured, his stare unblinkingly fixed beyond her left shoulder. _"Do not move a muscle."_

Flora stared at him in perplexion, her brow furrowing.

"Wha- "

The blade flew through the air with deadly precision, whistling past her ear before burying itself into something fleshy. A thoroughly bewildered Flora turned around on the spot, and then her jaw dropped in disbelief.

The woman was no more than a few feet behind her, a clawed hand stretched outwards. The blue dress clung to a withered, skeletal frame barely covered with mottled flesh, and the woman's papery, black-veined skin clung to her skull. Her eyes were all white pupil, her nose caved in and her mouth a raw wound; there was nothing of the human left about her. As Flora gaped in shock, the creature toppled backwards onto the grass, Zevran's blade having sunk itself with pinpoint accuracy between the eyes.

_It's a ghoul, _she realised, suddenly. _Like Ruck and Hespith from the Deep Roads. But in a more advanced stage of corruption._

Zevran was striding towards her with a hand stretched out, his face alight with a fixed intensity.

"Come on, _mi florita," _he said measuredly, alert as a Mabari scenting a stranger on the wind. "We are going to return to the main courtyard, get a horse and return to the farmhouse _now."_

From the other side of the stone wall there came a sudden, animalistic scrabbling; as though something was trying to climb the twelve-foot height.

"To me," Zevran breathed, reaching forwards to anchor Flora's hand in his. "Come, _nena."_

She had enough presence of mind to grab the hoe as he led her to the centre of the garden, positioning her with the trunk of the peach tree at her back and himself at her front. The scrabbling at the stone now came from both the northern and the western walls; followed by a low, bestial snarl from outside the garden's boundary.

"Don't be scared, _mi corazon_," Zevran breathed, blades readied at his sides as he stood poised before her. She could see the energy vibrating through his taut limbs like a coiled spring waiting to be released. "You must keep calm, _sí?"_

"I'm not scared," Flora replied immediately, feeling the rough bark of the peach tree against her shoulder blades as she clutched the hoe. "I'm with you."

The first ghoul made its way successfully over the wall, falling in a tumble of skeletal limbs into the bushes. When it rose, Flora saw that it was clad in Leonas Bryland's colours, the tattered remnants of a tabard clinging to its ravaged body.

It stumbled across the grass towards them with a guttural snarl rising in its throat; Zevran dispatched it with a quick and efficient scissoring of his blades. A moment later two more ghouls came over the wall, twisted mockeries of the servants they had once been. They lunged towards the peach tree, hollow-cheeked and dripping at the mouth.

The elf went first for one and then the other, side-stepping with feline agility as he avoided their clumsy lunges. His knife swung in a glittering arc, slicing through rotten flesh and spongy bone; ending both in quick succession. Their bodies fell to the ground, leaking a greyish, watery fluid across the grass.

Flora heard a sound from behind her and thrust the hoe in a blind sweep. It made a cracking sound as it collided with another creature's skull; moments later, Zevran had spun around and leapt forward, finishing the ghoul with a brutal thrust to the heart.

There followed a long silence, save for the elf's rapid, but measured breaths. Apart from the beads of sweat that had broken out on his tan forehead, Zevran appeared utterly unruffled; his expression cool and calm.

"Alright, _mi amor," _he said, very quietly. "We are going to return to the courtyard now. We are leaving this castle."

"But, _Alistair!_ Wynne and the others - "

" – Can take care of themselves," her companion finished, steel infusing the words. "Think of the _babe."_

Flora nodded wordlessly, keeping her grip on the hoe.

"Now, I want you to walk three paces ahead of me, _carina. _But no more than three, _hm_?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author: OOooh, some excitement! Ugh, what a creepy image though – the tainted servants of Leonas Bryland roaming around the abandoned castle. It was quite sad to write about the garden getting all overgrown once again, especially after I spent several chapters having Flora weed it out and regrow it, haha.
> 
> AAAAH the mental image of Flo just standing there, oblivious to this ravaged skeleton of a woman reaching out behind her! The stuff of nightmares, lol. I'm not a brave person at all and I freak myself out very easily, hehee.


	85. Under Attack!

Flora and Zevran made their way out of the walled garden unimpeded, following the narrow path between the kitchen allotment and the South Reach fortress. At one point, Flora thought that she heard another ghoulish snarl, sensing the elf tense in preparation. Positioned just behind her, he could see everything ahead and around Flora; while also covering her back.

It turned out to be merely a figment of their imagination – or perhaps the ghoul had changed its mind and slunk off into the shadows. They continued through the allotments without interference, emerging into the lesser courtyard just as the others appeared on its opposite side. The men who had ventured into the castle had their swords drawn, the blades stained with greyish fluid.

_"Flora."_

Alistair, who wore a face as ghastly as any ghoul, immediately fixed his eyes on her. A small, indescribable sound of relief escaped his throat and he dropped the sword onto the cobbles, striding across the courtyard to see his wife.

"There's _ghouls _up here," Flora complained, outraged. "The poor servants, I think I _recognised_ one of – oh!"

This was in response to Alistair scooping her bodily up into his arms; turning abruptly on his heel and heading back across the cobbles. Flora wound her arms around his neck, mouthing a question to Teagan as they passed. He grimaced at her and shook his head, bending down to retrieve the king's dropped sword.

Flora turned her face towards Alistair, struck into silence by her best friend's grey pallor and clenched jaw. There was a muscle twitching just below his eye and she inhaled in dismay, realising how frightened he was.

Wynne was waiting in the greater courtyard, staff in hand and three charred ghouls strewn across the flagstones, twitching. The horses were whinnying anxiously; save for the king's bay mare, who had once led an Archdemon on a chase atop the city walls without twitching an ear.

Alistair reached out to loosen the mare's reins, and was just about to lift Flora up onto the saddle when the nearest ghoul lurched to its feet nearby; a ghastly spectre of burnt and rotted flesh, clad in a cook's outfit. It flailed in a blind and ineffectual totter towards Alistair; who gripped his wife in one arm and channelled all of his fear and fury into the swing of his responding punch. His fist – which was clad only in a leather riding glove, drove straight into the creature's decomposed face and out the back of its head. The ghoul's skull broke apart like a rotten melon; pulpy brain matter flying in all directions.

Flora blinked, absentmindedly wiping some grey fluid from her cheek.

"I call that: _doing a_ _Howe_," she offered eventually, for want of anything else to say. "Remember when I …. Arl Howe…?"

This was not a particularly wise choice of recollection; Alistair had hated Howe as much as he had hatred the Archdemon, and on a far more personal level. He shot Flora a reproachful look, lifting her up onto the saddle and abruptly clambering on behind her. Without waiting for the others – his thoughts solely on removing his wife and child from danger as rapidly as possible – he turned the horse towards the portcullis and prompted it into a brisk walk.

As they passed back into the eerie stillness of South Reach's upper ward, Flora leaned back against Alistair's chest and exhaled. There was a slightly suspect aroma drifting up from her lap; she realised that the source was Alistair's bloodied arm, currently wrapped around her waist. She eyeballed it for a moment, watching the greyish sludge seep into the lambs' wool of her tunic, then gave an inward shrug.

_Alistair and I were covered in worse at various points during the Blight._

From somewhere behind and above them, Flora heard the others riding across the drawbridge that separated the castle from the town. She wondered if Alistair would slow their pace to wait for the others, but he remained staring fixedly ahead, urging the mare onwards in a brisk walk.

They passed by the abandoned town Chantry, its empty windows staring out like blind, resentful eyes. Flora remembered suddenly the reason that Alistair had gone inside the castle, and swivelled around in the saddle.

"Did you find Arl Leonas' papers?" she asked, curiously. "And his lodger? I mean, _ledger?"_

Alistair did not reply for several moments and when he eventually did, his voice emerged as taut as a bowstring.

"Don't talk to me yet," he snapped, his eyes swivelling side to side in a search for lurking threats. "Just let me focus on getting you both out of this fucking town."

Flora grimaced but fell quiet, almost bringing her fingernails to her mouth before realising that her hand was covered in greyish sludge. The baby woke up within her belly – ironically, it had been asleep for the duration of the ghoul attack – and gave its mother a little nudge. She ignored it, thinking on her best friend's grim-faced anger.

Alistair did not stop the horse until they had ridden down through the neglected middle ward, the obliterated lower ward, and out through what remained of the town gate. As they turned onto the trail through the dry and dusty fields, he slowed the mare to a more gentle walk; exhaling long and unsteadily. In the distance, the Blight scar was visible as a dark smudge on the horizon, casting a menacing shadow over the placid summer's day.

Alistair had still not uttered a word, his fingers bone-white as they clenched the reins. Flora mentally ran through her own actions, wondering if she had somehow been responsible for the afternoon's danger.

_No, I don't think so. He said not to go inside; I stayed outside. And there were ghouls in the courtyard too, not just in the garden._

_I haven't even said thank you to Zevran yet._

She twisted as far as she was able on the saddle, just about catching a glimpse of the others emerging beneath the town gate ruins. They were only about a quarter-mile behind and would soon catch up; their horses were free to pursue faster speeds. Just ahead lay the farmhouse where the company had been staying, beneath the sharply sloping end of the bluff. South Reach castle loomed overhead with a particularly gloomy air, now that Flora knew what pitiful inhabitants resided there. To augment the general desolation, thunder clouds were rapidly rolling in from the direction of the Brecilian Forest; casting a strange light over the hills of the bannorn.

Alistair drew the mare to a halt in the yard before the farmhouse, just as the first low roll of thunder echoed overhead. Fat drops of rain began to splash against the dirt as a South Reach local came hurrying from an outbuilding to take the reins. The king, with a face to match the skies overhead, slid off the saddle and immediately reached up to help Flora down, lowering her carefully to the ground. Even when she was safely on the cobbles, he did not let her go for several minutes, his fingers firmly wrapped around his own.

Alistair then launched into a tirade of furious accusations; blaming the South Reach mayor for not searching the castle beforehand; blaming the guards for not accompanying them into the town; blaming himself for letting his wife out of his sight. Flora knew this anger well – it bore the same characteristics as the old bitterness over his birth-right, and was rooted in fear.

The others arrived in the middle of Alistair's stream of invective; the horses immediately flickering their ears in alarm at the raised voice. They dismounted, with eyes swinging between the pacing Alistair and the downcast Flora, who was sitting inelegantly on a barrel. Teagan shot her a glance and she gave a little shrug, knowing better than to interrupt her best friend when he was in full flow.

Zevran looked across at Flora and flashed her a wan smile; she roused herself from her gloom to mouth _thank you _across the cobbles. The elf shook his head in a quick _don't mention it, _blowing her a kiss.

The South Reach blacksmith-turned-mayor now received the brunt of the king's outrage, which he bore with remarkable fortitude.

"_My wife," _Alistair snarled, in a remarkable and unconscious mirror of Maric. "My wife is expecting a child, and you led us into that _death trap. _The place was swarming with ghouls! Why was it not scouted out? If she'd been _hurt – or worse!_ Maker's Breath._"_

The king did not give the man a chance to reply, continuing to launch blistering accusations of blame. After several more minutes spent repeating the same points over and over; the mayor was dismissed abruptly. The former blacksmith shuffled off into the farmhouse, head hanging low as he wrung his cap in his hands.

"Alistair," said Teagan measuredly, unfastening his horse's bridle. "There's no point in getting angry after the fact. We'll learn our lesson for next time."

"I know what lesson I've learned," Alistair retorted, his eyes swinging across to Flora. "Flo isn't strong enough to be exposed to a place like this. She's so vulnerable, now. _Helpless."_

To hear the truth spoken so brutally was akin to receiving a slap to the face. Flora flinched as though he had struck her; her pale eyes widening and a hurt flush rising up the length of her neck. Alistair put his hand to his head and let out a humourless laugh, the fear from earlier still smouldering in the depths of his pupils.

"It was selfish of me to want to marry you, my love," he said, bleakly. "I wanted you to be my wife and take the throne as my queen. But I would sleep _so much easier_ if you could shield yourself, Flora. I'd be content to keep you as my mistress, if your spirits were protecting you still. I- I wish more than _anything_ that you still had your magic."

Flora had heard enough. She clambered to her feet - grateful for the cold stoicism of her natural face - and turned her face away from the courtyard, heading blindly away from this unwelcome truth.

"_Alistair!"_

Wynne cut sharply across the king, her duck-egg blue eyes flashing. Alistair stopped abruptly, the mottled flush of anger draining from his face to reveal a pallid undertone of fear.

"Ah, Maker," he croaked, dragging his hand over his face as he sat down on the barrel that Flora had so recently vacated. "I don't think that came out how I intended it to."

"You'd be surprised how often that happens," Zevran murmured from nearby, reproach running through each word. "When you speak in anger."

Alistair ran a despairing hand through his hair until it stood on end, turning his eyes on Teagan.

"What did I say to Flo, uncle? I can't even _remember. _My brain feels like it's been knocked around in my skull. I was so frightened."

He looked down at his glove, which was still coated with the drying contents of the ghoul's skull.

"Well, you wished that Flora was still a mage, instead of your wife" Teagan stated, a quiet but weighty note of reprimand in his tone. "Which – just to remind you – would make your child a bastard."

"And implied that she's somehow _diminished_ by the loss of her spirits," added Zevran, equally un-amused. "I would be more than happy to take your queen off your hands, if you have grown tired of having one."

Alistair groaned, putting both hands over his face.

"Ah, Maker's Breath – that's not what I meant at all! I'm such an _idiot_. Why do my words always come out so different to the way they sound in my head? I have to find her."

Wynne reached out to put a hand on Alistair's arm as he stood, shaking her head swiftly back and forth in a cautionary gesture.

"I would give her some time, Alistair."

The king slumped back down onto the barrel and pressed his fists into his head, gritting his teeth.

Meanwhile, Flora had headed off in the direction of the barn behind the farmhouse; taking deep gulps of afternoon air. This was supposed to both _cool_ and _calm_ her, but it was so humid that it felt like inhaling mouthfuls of watery, luke-warm soup. She rubbed a hand over her eyes, willing herself not to cry.

_I wish I still had my spirits, too. And I know that I'm weak, you don't need to tell me._

_I never appreciated how fortunate I was. I took my abilities for granted. I thought they'd be with me forever._

Not entirely certain of where she was going, Flora passed the barn doors and entered a storage-shed that had been converted into a makeshift stables. There were a dozen horses resident in the stalls; mostly Ferelden Forders, but with a few Marcher steeds standing amongst them. They chewed messy mouthfuls of hay, eyeing Flora curiously.

Flora recognised Alistair's tall bay mare at the far end; its dark coat damp with perspiration. On seeing her it gave a little whicker of recognition, and she wandered down the central aisle towards it: avoiding several buckets and a toppled pitch fork.

"Hello, horse," said Flora, tilting her gaze up to its noble brow. "I keep forgetting your name."

The horse didn't seem to care. It bumped a long, white-striped muzzle against her chest, nostrils quivering. Flora realised that it was searching for the raw, earth-covered carrot that she had surreptitiously tucked between her breasts that morning.

"Oh no! Not my _snack."_

The horse eyed her belligerently, and Flora relented, retrieving the carrot and holding it up, tentatively. Although horses had been a necessary part of her life for the past year; they had barely featured during her time at the Circle, or in Herring. Even _during _the past year, she had always shared a saddle with Alistair; who, loving horses, naturally took charge.

"I hope you _appreciate- " _she began, and then froze in terror as the huge horse lunged forward, teeth bared and nostrils flared. It devoured the carrot in two large chomps, flecks of orange falling to the hay-strewn dirt.

"Oh!" Flora said, both impressed and slightly traumatised. 

She reached up and scratched the horse's nose, feeling the short, bristled coat beneath her bitten nails. The horse let out a low snort, swishing its tail in a gentle, contented arc.

A mouse skittered between the stalls in a streak of soft grey. The sudden, scuttling noise caused several neighbouring horses to shuffle in alarm, their nostrils drawing tight and ears pointed forward. Alistair's horse remained placid and calm, staring down at the queen solemnly with a beautiful, liquid-dark eye. Flora smiled up at it, suddenly struck with a memory that had not surfaced for many months.

"When Duncan took me from the Circle, I had to ride a horse for the first time. You won't know Duncan, he's dead," she added, with the perennial twinge of grief.

"Anyway, I'd only ever seen horses before when the Templars came to capture me from Herring. We never used to get horses in Herring, because nobody ever wanted to visit us, for some reason. I don't know why! Oh, I'm getting off track. Anyway, so I had to ride a horse. And I fell off about sixty times on the road to Ostagar. Then we got attacked by bandits and my horse ran off, so I had to share a saddle with Duncan. He promised to teach me to ride better, but… we ran out of time. There wasn't enough _time._"

The horse, bored of Flora's monologue, turned away from her and went to take a drink from the water-bucket in the corner. Flora eyed it for a moment and then let out a little sigh, the strange melancholy that always accompanied recollections of Duncan settling upon her like a damp blanket. She remembered his tawny, lined face more clearly than any of her Circle instructors; the sound of his voice – northern, with a faint tinge of somewhere _else – _as familiar as the waves on the Herring shore.

'_You have a rare and wonderful gift,' he'd said. 'Use it well.'_

_Duncan would never recruit me as I am now. He chose me because of my spirits, and they're gone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Ooh we need to get Flo that weapons training asap, she is a bit useless at the moment. I think Alistair has got a point, but he did express it in a slightly clumsy way! Flora is well aware of how her shield used to withstand an Archdemon's flame- and now she can't even defend herself from a couple of crappy ghouls.


	86. A Litter Of Royal Heirs

Alone in the stables Flora exhaled, feeling her shoulders slump. She gave the horse a farewell pat, glancing up at the sloping wooden roof as the clouds unleashed the rest of their humid contents. Thunder rolled once more in the distance, ominous as the drums of an approaching army.

Yet Flora had been raised on the Storm Coast, where thunder and lightning were the weather's one constant. Ignoring the distant rumbling, she wandered through the remainder of the stables and into a small paddock that lay to the rear. Several goats were sheltering from the rain beneath a wilted tree; nearby a chicken pecked at a puddle.

Silas, the blacksmith-turned-mayor of South Reach, sat on an empty stone trough at the edge of the paddock. The man was staring down at his careworn hands, either unaware of the rain, or entirely ignoring it. He started as though woken from a dream when Flora sat down on the edge of the trough beside him; eyes widening as he spun his head towards her.

"Your majesty!" he croaked, scrambling so rapidly to his feet that he almost skidded on the damp grass. "Queen Florence!"

Flora, who was stretching out her sore knee, let out a ambivalent grunt.

"Your majesty, I can't say how sorry I am- " the mayor continued desperately, looking as though he were about to fall to his knees in the mud.

"Eh?" she asked, perplexed. "Sorry for _what?"_

"For putting you and the Royal heir in the danger. Your majesty, if anything'd happened to you or the baby, my life wouldn't be worth two coppers. Please, _forgive_ me!"

Flora gazed silently up at him for a moment, then patted the trough in a prompt for him to sit down.

"There's nothing to forgive," she said, with Herring rationale. "You couldn't have known that there were ghouls in the castle grounds."

"I should have sent men to scout it out," Silas declared, a grimace embedded across his weary features. "To clear the keep of enemies. King Alistair was _right_ to blame me for endangering you."

"But you don't _have_ any scouts," Flora retorted, narrowing her eyes. "Arl Leonas has sent builders, and carpenters, and tools for fixing things. He's not sent any guards or weapons. It's not your fault that there are still threats within the castle."

The baby woke up and gave a wriggle on hearing the impassioned voice of it's mother. Flora dropped a hand to her stomach, stroking the curve of a small rump through the skin.

"You need proper soldiers to help you," she said, earnestly. "I'll write to Arl Leonas today. Or – I'll ask Wynne or Bann Teagan to write. Alistair can authorise troops to be sent down, too."

They sat in silence for several minutes, watching the goats huddling beneath the tree. A whip-crack of lightning shot across the sky, illuminating the hills of the Bannorn in a split-second of electric light. A rumble of thunder followed in its quicker cousin's wake as the humid rain continued to fall, turning the dust beneath the trough to mud.

"I don't know why I ever thought I could be mayor," the blacksmith said, suddenly. "Forgive me, your majesty, but I didn't even _want _to be mayor of South Reach. The others chose me during one of the committee meetings."

"Well," Flora replied, squeezing water from her rain-soaked sleeve. "There must be a reason why they chose you."

"If there is, I don't know it."

Flora gave a little shrug, letting go of the wet material.

"Give yourself a chance," she said, recalling how she had once rejected even the temporary title of _Warden-Commander. _"You can learn on the job, like I did."

_Like I'm still doing, _Flora thought, thinking of the crown packed away in a watertight case within Teagan's travel-trunk.

"But the king is in a fearful rage," Silas said suddenly, paling a fraction. "With _me_, in particular. He'll demand for my resignation."

"No, I won't."

The mayor clambered to his feet in a panic as Alistair emerged from the stables, the rain plastering his golden hair to his head. His eyes shot towards Flora; with great difficulty, he stopped himself from going straight to her side.

"Your majesty!" Silas bleated, looking half-tempted to prostrate himself in the muddy field. "Please forgive me for endangering your queen."

"I shouldn't have blamed you, ser," Alistair replied, frankly. "As Bann Guerrin has explained, you've had no military support from Denerim. I'll write to Arl Leonas and have some troops sent down to assist in the clearing of the castle."

Flora blinked at her best friend, inwardly pleased that their thoughts had run along similar lines. Alistair stared back at her for a moment, his eyes searching her face; desperate to go to her but knowing that this business needed to be resolved first. King and mayor conversed for several minutes, ignoring their incongruous backdrop of a paddock and myriad puddles. Silas grew more at ease with each exchange, shoulders straightening and eyes brightening.

"Well, that's settled, then," Alistair said at last, his gaze returning once more to where Flora was perched on the empty trough. "We'll discuss the particulars before our departure, tomorrow. Now, if you don't mind, I'd… I'd like to speak with my wife."

The mayor nodded and bowed deeply, far more cheered than he had been a half-candle prior. He made his way back towards the stables, his chin elevated and determined in expression.

Once the paddock was empty, save for the goats and the chicken, Alistair strode forwards and dropped to his knees before his queen; careless of the mud and damp grass.

"_Flora."_

Flora blinked, looking down at her husband as he knelt before her, the rain streaming down his brow. Alistair reached out to take her fingers, pressing them hard against his lips in a kiss.

"I'm so sorry for what I said before, my love," he breathed. "Don't pay attention to any of it, I just – sometimes, I just don't _think _before I speak_. _I thank the Maker every day that you're my wife. I'm the luckiest man on Thedas to be married to you. And being king is so much easier with you as my queen. I wouldn't want it any other way."

She stared down at him as he clutched her fingers tightly; unwilling to release her hand.

"I… I failed to protect you and our child earlier," Alistair continued, a note of despair ringing hollow in the words. "And it terrified me. I was furious with myself, and I took it out on you."

"_And_ Mr. Mayor."

"And the mayor," he agreed, feverishly. "Forgive me, Lo. But the thought of you in danger – if you or the baby had been _hurt- _I wasn't thinking straight._"_

As his face contorted in sudden distress, she reached out and touched the top of her best friend's head; her fingers brushing over his wet hair.

"But you did protect us," she said, earnestly. "You asked Zevran and Wynne to come on the progress. And Zevran killed five of them in the garden, and Wynne the same amount by the horses. None of the ghouls even got within touching distance of me. I never felt like I was in danger."

_Poor creatures. I wonder why they didn't flee the castle with the others? Perhaps they thought they'd be safe in Ferelden's most defensible fortress._

Alistair blinked; he had not thought of the situation from this perspective.

"You're right," he said eventually, pushing himself up from the mud and perching on the trough beside her. "I need to thank them. But, I shan't make the same mistake again, Flo. When we go to Lothering – or anywhere else that could be dangerous – I'm not going to stray from your side."

As another rumble of thunder echoed across the hills of the Bannorn, Alistair bowed his head to press a kiss against her damp cheek.

"Anyway, I've thought of a solution," Flora announced as he drew back. "Once this baby is born, I can start taking _ragwort._ Leliana told me about it; it stops your womb from catching."

"Flo- "

"So I won't get with child any more," Flora continued, hastily. "Then I can learn how to fight, and defend myself. With knives, and swords, and axes, and…. garrottes. And then you won't need to worry about me so much. I'll be as deadly as Leliana."

_And I won't be weak and vulnerable anymore, _she thought grimly to herself.

"Axes? _Garrottes?"_

Alistair had been shaking his head slowly from side to side, his eyes widening in dismay as he listened. He reached out to cup her face gently within his palm, sliding his fingers into her wet hair.

"My love, if that's what you truly desire, I'll support you," he breathed, probing the depths of her Waking Sea eyes with his stare. "But… is that _really_ what you want? To be like Leliana?"

Flora shrugged, turning over her hands and staring down at her nail-bitten fingers.

"I don't think so," she replied, honestly. "I don't know what I want to do with myself, other than trying to fix what's broken in this country. And help the elves in the alienage. What do _you _want?"

"Me?"

"Mm."

"_Honestly?"_

"Yes," she said, lifting her eyes curiously to rest on his face. "Honestly."

"I want to have all the children that the Maker blesses us with," Alistair replied, his face open and earnest. "I want to make you a mother many times over, my sweet wife."

"Many? Many times?" Flora asked, alarmed. _"How _many?"

"Six? Eight? Ten? Maybe not _ten," _he said hastily, seeing her eyes bulge. "But I want to have them with _you. _My wonderful queen._"_

Flora thought about this for several moments, absentmindedly fiddling with a loose thread trailing from Alistair's tunic sleeve.

_Alistair has never had much in the way of family, even though he calls both Eamon and Teagan uncle._

_Whereas I doubled my family when I found out that I was a Cousland._

"Well then, maybe I won't take the ragwort after the baby comes," she replied, smiling at him.

The king inhaled unsteadily, sensing that she had forgiven him for his earlier thoughtless comments. Flora did not see the point in holding grudges, and anyway, she understood that Alistair had been shaken to the core by his pregnant wife's brush with danger. She still remembered the pure white bolt of fear-fuelled rage that had shot through her when an assassin's dagger had come within an inch of Alistair's throat before she had intercepted it.

_I made my shield punch the man through the side of a cart and let it pin him up upside down; his skin turning blue as I shrieked all the northern curses I could think of, crude as a Herring fishwife. Then I couldn't speak afterwards for almost an hour, I was so badly frightened. I was in tears all night and Alistair had to hold me. _

_Fear makes you think quickly, but not with reason._

Flora let her fingers slide gently between Alistair's large, tan knuckles; familiar with the wear that had resulted from years of wielding a blade. She knew intimately the location of every groove and callus, could describe each freckle from memory alone. She had spent the best part of a year clutching this hand as a talisman against both bad dreams and Blight, until it felt almost an extension of her own body.

Alistair turned his hand over to link their fingers more tightly together, nestling his chin affectionately against the top of her head.

"My love," he murmured hoarsely, rubbing his thumb in slow circles across the back of her hand. "I want to keep planting children in you until we have a whole litter running about the palace. My beautiful wife."

Flora smiled at him, feeling the baby fidget within her as though able to hear their plans to create some little brothers and sisters to keep it company. Alistair shot her a quick, sideways glance; the faintest flush rising to his cheeks.

"I've already asked the midwife for advice on how to make your womb catch," he confessed, slightly embarrassed. "In case – in case we wanted to make another baby quickly."

Flora's eyebrows rose; as a former healer, she was still fascinated by the complex inner workings of the body.

"How?"

"I can't spill my seed over my hand," he replied, caught between amusement and self-consciousness. "So I won't be able to watch you bathe in the mornings, ha. And she gave me a special tea to drink to enhance my potency."

"Not one of Zevran's teas! I think they have _bad _side effects."

"No! Not _that _kind of potency. And in your fertile period, I'll need to excuse myself from the royal council afternoon session. Just long enough for me to put my seed in you in the middle of the day."

"Making more royal heirs sounds like an activity the council should support," breathed Flora, wide-eyed. "Maybe they could put it as the last item on the day's agenda and bring in a bed. Eamon would approve."

"You little minx!" Alistair kissed her ear, deciding not to mention a certain _dream_ he'd had recently involving the royal throne and his naked queen. "Stop, or I'll embarrass myself in front of those goats."

Flora smiled up at him and he leaned forward, letting her hook her arms around his neck. She knew full well what had brought on this sudden bout of broodiness in her best friend: the death-tinged Blight scar, the destroyed villages within, the abandoned town of South Reach and its ghoul-infested castle.

_This is like when we used to lie together all the time during the Blight. During the darkest and most desolate weeks, we joined ourselves three or four times a night, night after night after night. Each climax was like an affirmation of life in the midst of death._

_Talking about the future and creating new life together – birthing a litter of children – it's the same thing. It's a form of defiance._

"Start drinking the tea now, then," Flora said, impulsively. "As soon as the midwife says it's alright, we can start making some brothers and sisters for this one."

Alistair beamed at her, genuine delight spreading over his face as he drew her into his arms.

"You mean it?"

"Mm," replied Flora, who liked children and quite fancied the notion of a large family. "I mean it."

* * *

The rest of the afternoon was spent in a four hour meeting of the South Reach restoration committee. This took place in what had once been the farmhands' mess quarters, the only chamber large enough to house several dozen at once. The attendees discussed several pertinent issues, including the summoning of Royal troops from Denerim to clear the castle of ghouls. The mayor had glanced at Alistair with some trepidation as the topic was raised, but the king's earlier anger was passed; soothed by Flora's gentle reassurance in the paddock.

Docile as a well-fed Mabari, Alistair sat beside his wife with a hand on her knee, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on her thigh as he listened to the men speak. Teagan made the occasional comment, scrawling notes on a roll of parchment to send to Eamon. The Guerrins rarely used secretaries to take down their letters; trusting only correspondence writ in the hand of the other.

Just before the meeting was adjourned, Alistair cleared his throat, immediately drawing both the attention and the silence of the chamber. Curious eyes turned to the king; many darting glances to the side where the Hero of Ferelden sat, quiet and solemn-faced.

"I'm going to grant South Reach a ten-year leasehold over the northern isle of Wickway," Alistair said, naming the territory that he had been given as part of Flora's dowry. "There are copper mines on the island that make good coin. Use the profits to help rebuild."

"Your majesty!" breathed the mayor, as an excited murmur broke out around the room. "I – I can't thank you enough. I know you've no _personal _ties to our town."

"I'm the king," Alistair replied, with a wry smile. "I've ties with every patch of land in Ferelden. Also, the queen and I spent a month here before we travelled to Denerim. We both want to see it restored to its former condition."

Flora impulsively leaned over and kissed her husband on the cheek; suddenly very proud of him. Alistair smiled sideways at her, wishing that they were alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Aaaah, this was a nice chapter to write! I always imagined Alistair as wanting a big family. I can forgive Alistair for being so foot-in-mouthy last chapter (which he definitely was – poor Flo, she's well aware that her spirits aren't with her anymore!) because he was terrified. Ten kids though! GOOD LUCK, FLORA.


	87. A Game Of Cards

After dinner – a simple, hearty meal of rustic Fereldan fare – they retired to Wynne's quarters for the evening. Teagan and Zevran played a game of dice in one corner, while Flora and the senior enchanter practised her writing in the other. Flora's companions had taken on a joint responsibility for her literacy, and the queen never lacked for somebody to read with. Alistair was trying to focus on Teagan's notes from earlier; in reality, he was still exulting over Flora's ready agreement to increase the size of their family. The thought of his best friend with several children at her feet and a babe suckling at her breast made the breath catch in his throat from sheer longing.

"What are you beaming at, Alistair?" Wynne asked from across the room, turning the page of her book as Flora hesitantly enunciated the last sentence. "You look like a Mabari left alone with a meat pie."

"Nothing," Alistair replied hastily, putting aside Teagan's letter. "Shall we play a game of Wicked Grace?"

"_Strip _Grace?" enquired a hopeful Zevran, and received several glowers.

Wynne, Zevran, Teagan and Alistair all sat around the table, bringing their candles across to light the patterned cards as they were dealt across the wood. Flora had elected to finish copying out Wynne's carefully scribed sentences; legs crossed beneath her as she rested the parchment on her plump stomach.

"Shall we play Nevarran rules?" Teagan suggested, shuffling the final few cards remaining in the deck before placing them face-down on the table.

The bann's suggestion was agreed, and soon each player was peering down at their cards. Zevran didn't spare his hand more than a quick glance before leaning back in his chair and curling the corner of his mouth.

Alistair spotted the elf's lip curl upwards, and let out a bellow of laughter.

"That feigned smile won't fool me anymore, Zev. I know that you only grin when you've got a losing hand."

The elf's dark eyes widened innocently, and he put tanned, tattooed fingers to his chest with mock-indignity as Wynne laughed.

"_Alistair! _I suggest that you stick to the business of _governance_, rather than facial analysis," he countered, flashing very white teeth in the candlelit shadow. "My face is an Orlesian mask of trickery."

"Well, I think you're bluffing," Alistair started and then gaped, eyes widening. _"Wynne! _Did you just look at my cards?!"

Wynne gave a little laugh as the elf cackled in delight.

"I take advantage of all opportunities presented to me!" the senior enchanter retorted, eyes sparkling. "You shouldn't hold your cards at such an _overexposed_ angle."

The three other players smiled at Alistair's outrage. The king's handsome, open features were capable of as much duplicity as a new-born babe; whatever emotion he was experiencing was writ plain across his face.

"Sweetheart," Alistair called across the room, still indignant. "Come and help me when you're finished. I'm in need of your _ambiguous _beauty."

"I'll grant you, her face may be without bias," Zevran murmured in Teagan's ear, surreptitiously glancing at the bann's cards as he leaned across. "But she goes _'hee hee hee!' _when she has a winning hand, and_ 'I want to swap my cards' _when she has a poor one."

Meanwhile Flora, who was sweating with the effort of wrangling the letters into some sort of order, decided that she _was _finished. When she looked down at the lines she had copied, they appeared more _Ancient Tevinter _than Wynne's neatly scribed writing.

_I think there must be something not quite right with my brain, _she thought, slightly wistfully. _I'm sure I should be improving more quickly than this._

Putting the parchment to one side, Flora unwound her legs and clambered awkwardly to her feet, wandering across to where the others were gathered around the table. She went to Alistair and sat down on his thigh, leaning back against his chest as he put an arm around her waist.

"I need your help," he whispered in her ear, unable to resist nuzzling his face into her cheek. "I think I'm going to lose."

Flora nodded, then turned her solemn face towards Alistair's rivals.

"We need another hand," she announced to the table, all of whom gaped at her in mild disbelief.

"But you are working with Alistair, _carina!" _replied Zevran, trying not to laugh. "And he already has his allocated hand."

"Well, the baby is playing too," Flora retorted without batting an eyelid. "It needs some cards."

"How can it _play?" _continued the elf, voice shaking with the effort of restraining his cackles.

"I'm it's _mother," _Flora retorted, placing a hand on her stomach. "I _know _what it wants."

She turned earnest, entreating eyes towards Teagan, who blinked wordlessly for a moment. Aware that he was being cajoled but unable to deny the queen's limpid and long-lashed stare, the younger Guerrin coughed and doled out another hand of cards.

"Bann Teagan!" reprimanded Wynne, nostrils flaring. "You are too shrewd to fall for the beguilement of a pretty face."

Teagan gave a helpless shrug of defeat, smiling back at Flora as she beamed at him, reaching forwards to take the extra hand.

To the general astonishment of the group, she then proceeded to swap several of the baby's cards with those in Alistair's possession; until the king had ended up with a far more favourable hand.

"What are you _doing?!" _squealed Zevran, wide-eyed. "You shameless little hussy. This is cheating on a scale that even _I _would not engage in!"

"The baby wants to help it's father," replied Flora, sweet and brazen.

"It's inherited Flo's generous nature," added Alistair, who was now laughing openly.

Flora beamed, leaning back against her best friend's chest and folding her fingers across her stomach.

Despite Flora's blatant cheating, Alistair still ended up losing badly. His Marician features lacked any artifice or cunning, and his wife could not offer any particularly helpful advice. She had spent most of the game weaving the loosened laces of his tunic into fishing knots; her fingers automatically working the strings into familiar patterns.

_Clinch knot; palomar knot; turtle knot-_

_Turtle knot..._

_How do I tie a turtle knot again?_

Flora felt a cold jolt of fear trickle down her spine. Herring suddenly seemed an ocean further away than it had done a few moments prior; her heartbeat lurching forward erratically.

_I can't have forgotten how to tie a turtle knot. It's the main knot used to tie a thin line to a small hook. I used to tie it a dozen times a day back in Herring._

_In the Circle, I tied the different knots into my own hair to make sure I didn't forget them. But I didn't do it during the Blight, because I was so preoccupied with everything else._

_Have I forgotten how to tie a turtle?_

She closed her eyes, hoping fervently that – with the deprivation of her senses -the memory might return to her.

Zevran, naturally, won all three rounds. Wynne came close to victory on the second game, but the elf's wiles were too convoluted for even the senior enchanter to match. Conceding defeat, Wynne bade them all goodnight; passing her farewell on to the apparently dozing Flora. Teagan took his leave shortly afterwards, reminding Alistair that the committee meeting would start shortly after breakfast the next morning.

Finally, Zevran, Flora and Alistair were left alone in the upper chamber, the candles guttering in a breeze from the open hearth. Zevran was humming an Antivan-tinged melody softly to himself, sorting out the cards with dexterous fingers. The rest of the farmhouse had fallen quiet around them, since the majority of the South Reach restoration committee had also retired to bed. Their room alone still gleamed with candlelight; a single spot of brightness amidst an array of dull windows.

Still Alistair was leaning back in his chair, both arms encircling his best friend as she slumped against his chest, her eyes tightly closed. His hand gripped the back of her neck with careful gentility, one callused thumb rubbing slow circles into her skin.

"Zev?" the king said suddenly, his voice cutting across the smoky room.

The former assassin looked up from the cards, dark eyes coming to rest on Alistair's face.

"_Sí, amor?"_

Alistair opened his mouth to spill forth a rambling and effusive thanks. He was aware that without the elf's consummate skill with a blade, the newly vulnerable Flora would have been easy prey for the ghouls of South Reach. The king's earlier fear and anger had faded, leaving behind a relief so potent that he could almost taste it sharp on his tongue.

"You don't need to say it, Alistair."

Zevran could read faces like Flora's Herring-dad could read the sky; and could see the gratitude writ naked across Alistair's features.

"But- "

"It is unnecessary. You _know_ I would never allow a hair on her head to be harmed. Nor for any ill to befall your little babe."

Alistair nodded, clutching Flora as a sudden wave of dizzy gratitude overcame him. When she opened her eyes and let out a plaintive wail, the king startled – he had thought she was asleep.

"_I've forgotten it!" _Flora bemoaned, her face contorted with dismay. "I can't believe it, I can't believe it. _How could I have forgotten it?"_

Zevran and Alistair shared a bemused glance.

"Forgotten what, my love?" Alistair asked, tightening his grip on his wife as she fidgeted unhappily on his lap. "Sweetheart, calm down."

"The _turtle knot," _Flora replied immediately, a distinct tremor in her words. The north always emerged more strongly when her emotions ran strong; the vowels flattening like expanses of coarse sand. "I can't remember how to tie it. I can't remember!"

"The twirly _what?"_

Flora's lower lip wobbled and she heaved herself up from Alistair's lap, her head spinning as though trying to locate the nearest large body of water.

"I have to find a fisherman!"

"Darling, we're over a hundred miles _inland."_

"But I need to remember the turtle knot."

A stubborn light had fallen on Flora's face; she looked ready to walk the leagues back to the coast that very moment.

"What does the turtle knot look like?" Zevran interjected, softly. "Don't cry; describe it for me, _nena."_

Flora bit anxiously at her thumbnail, shifting from foot to foot on the floorboards as Alistair rose to embrace her.

"It's used to tie a hook to a leader," she replied, in a small voice. "You eye the line, then make a little loop, then carry on the line to make an overhand- "

Flora's fingers moved in the air, illustrating these first few steps of tying the knot. As her mind went blank once again at the crucial stage, she let her hands fall with an unsteady gulp of air.

Although Zevran was not familiar with the specific vernacular of fishermen, he was fluent in the tying of knots. He immediately recognised the knot that Flora was shaping; although he had used it in very different circumstances.

"Here, _carina," _he murmured, rising to his feet and approaching her. "In Antiva, we name it _lagartija."_

Coming to a halt just before the agitated Flora, the elf reached out to lift two long strands of dark red hair. Forcing his naturally deft fingers to move at a more sedentary rate, Zevran tied the strands in the knot that he knew as the _lizard, _but she called the _turtle_.

A tearful Flora watched the twist of his dexterous, tawny fingers and suddenly the memory returned, bright as a sea-softened shard of green sea glass. As the elf let the knotted hair fall, she reached up to replicate the knot with another pair of strands; not even needing to watch her own instinctive movements.

"See, not _lost," _Zevran chided, quietly. "Merely temporarily… mislaid. Dry those pretty eyes, _carina."_

Flora beamed at her elven companion, leaning forwards on her toes to kiss him on the cheek.

"Thank you!"

She wandered across to the window while idly tying more strands of hair into knots; her body in a South Reach farmhouse but her mind firmly on the northern coast.

"I think I'm going to retire," Zevran murmured, stifling a yawn with his fingers. "Tragically not in the arms of Wynne – that mature bosom has been banned from me – but I find myself somewhat weary from the day's exertions."

He was cut off abruptly by Alistair's rough, self-conscious embrace, the king more used to hugging a wife who stood a foot shorter than his six foot and three inches. The elf blinked in genuine astonishment, thought briefly about making a slyly inappropriate comment; then bit it back and returned the embrace, patting the taller man gently between the shoulder blades.

"I can't thank you enough," Alistair muttered, the words emerging as a mumble but still audible to the elf's sensitive ears. "If you hadn't been there at South Reach earlier, she and the baby might have been – they might have- "

Alistair took a deep and unsteady breath, drawing back and staring earnestly down at the elf.

"Is there anything that I can give you to show my gratitude?" he asked, earnestly. _"Anything _at all. I swear, Zev. You'll have it."

"What, even the five hundred sheep from the dowry?" Zevran asked with a little laugh, shooting him a wicked, dancing glance. "What if I asked to be a made an arl?"

"I'd see it done," Alistair said, without hesitation. "If that scum _Howe_ could be part of the Landsmeet, I don't see why you shouldn't be. Is… is that what you _want?"_

The elf laughed, shaking his head. "No, thank you. I doubt I could adapt to it as she has."

Both men looked towards the window, where Flora had now tied up half her hair into various knots. She had breathed a mist onto the glass pane, and was trying to remember some of the words that Wynne had taught her. _S-E-R-K-A-L T-O-W-W-A _did not quite resemble the senior enchanter's elegantly scribed _Circle Tower. _Flora frowned at her own erroneous attempt, breathed out another fresh 'slate', and put a finger to the mist for a third attempt.

"I'm going to run out of air before I get this right," she said to herself, wondering whether perhaps it was _S-I _rather than _S-E. _"I need bigger lungs for all my unfortunate errors."

A short time later, Alistair was stoking up the flames within the hearth of their own bedchamber. A bat was flapping against the window, and Flora was gaping at it with mild trepidation as she clutched the blankets to her chest.

"What if it's Morrigan in one of her animal-forms?" she breathed, wide-eyed, from the bed.

Alistair finally lowered the poker, satisfied with the volume of flame now brewing in the hearth. Turning, he strode across the creaking floorboards towards his discarded pack; stooping to rummage through the contents.

"Morrigan wouldn't wait for one of us to open the window," he replied, determinedly hunting through the leather bag. "She'd turn into something _heavy _and crash straight through the glass."

Flora turned her gaze away from the window, peering at her husband as he crouched over his pack.

"Have you lost something?" she asked, sitting up against the cushions and grimacing as her lower back gave a throb of pain. "Do you need help finding it?"

"I hope I haven't lost it," Alistair replied, then made a small sound of triumph. "Ha! Here it is. I forgot I put it inside a boot to keep it safe."

He drew out an object wrapped in calfskin, grinning. Rising to his feet, the king anchored the object beneath his chin and hastily stripped off shirt and trousers; crossing the room naked to join his wife. Flora inched over on the mattress to make room for her best friend, pulling back the blankets as he clambered into bed.

Transferring the mysterious object back to his palm, Alistair leaned over to blow out the candle on the dresser; the smouldering hearth now the sole source of light in the rustic chamber. Shifting position beneath the blanket, he smiled across at Flora, reaching out to caress the swollen curve of her stomach.

"I love it when you sleep in my shirt," he murmured, attention divided between his pretty wife and the fidgeting child in her belly. "Are you going to take the knots out of your hair, my love?"

"No," retorted Flora, shaking her head to feel the weight of the dozen fishing knots she had tied into the dark red strands. "I LIKE them."

Alistair grinned at her, and then dropped his eyes to the calfskin-wrapped object in his hand.

"I got this for you before we left the city," he said, quietly. "I thought you might appreciate it as we get further inland."

Flora blinked at him curiously, reaching out her hands to receive the object. It felt hard and oddly curved beneath her fingers; she peeled away the calfskin and inhaled suddenly, her eyes widening.

The unwrapped leather had revealed a creamy pink conch shell, speckled with flecks of ochre and tan. Flora ran her thumb wonderingly across its ridged surface, and then held it up to the side of her head. Immediately, the echo of the incoming tide filled her ear, a sound which she would never grow tired of hearing.

She kept the shell against her ear for several minutes, barely breathing; transfixed by the familiar coarse whisper of waves over sand. Alistair beamed at her, feeling his heart throb almost painfully against his ribcage.

Eventually, Flora lowered the shell from her ear and placed it carefully on the dresser on her side of the bed. She put her arms around Alistair's neck and he reached up to grip her elbow, kissing a ragged line over her skin.

"Thank you," she croaked into his ear. "I love it, I love it!"

"You do?"

"Yeeees!"

Alistair reached both arms around his fat-bellied best friend; drawing Flora close against his chest and pressing his lips to the top of her head.

"Well, I love _you," _he murmured, nuzzling his face against her tangled hair. "More than anything in the world."

Flora inhaled unsteadily as their fingers tangled; anchoring husband to wife in the night's darkness. The residual nightmares from the past year plagued him - and the strange emptiness of her own sleep bothered her – _much_ less frequently when they slept curled together, joined at the palm. She pressed a kiss to the underside of his chin, feeling the stubble sprouting through the skin.

"I love you too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I'm not sure that going to sleep with a ton of knots tied into your hair is a good idea, Flo. Lol! I thought that the tying of the fisherman's knots into her hair at the Circle was a good way to remember the habits of Herring. This was a fun chapter to write! Flora is definitely being extremely cheeky with the demanding of extra cards for the baby, hehe. I also liked the moment of genuine affection between Alistair and Zevran- they both have huge respect for each other , and Alistair values Zevran so much that he actually feels bad about the Flo situation, lol


	88. A Challenge From Finian

The next morning, the tradition of the _council of the bedchamber_ was duly continued; albeit in slightly less refined circumstances than within Denerim Castle's Royal quarters. Instead of Guillaume and a bevy of servants bearing a half-dozen platters, Teagan showed himself in after a cursory knock. The bann bore a single tray with ale, apples and hunks of buttered bread; entering the room with one hand over his eyes.

"Morning, Alistair," he announced, letting the door swing shut in his wake. "And you too, Flora. Are you decent, poppet?"

"Mm." Flora let out a distracted, Herring-grunt of assent, sitting amidst the blankets while detangling her hair.

"Not quite," Alistair corrected hastily, reaching across and fastening several more buttons on Flora's shirt. "There we go. Morning, uncle. Thank you for the food."

"I wanted to make sure you were both awake," Teagan replied, lowering the tray to the bed and sitting beside it. "The correspondence is piling up downstairs."

"_Correspondence?" _Alistair said in surprise, eyebrows rising as he clambered to his feet and knotted a tunic around his waist. "It's managed to find us even here?"

"Don't underestimate Leliana's ravens," confirmed the bann, wryly. "I wager they'd fly into the Black City itself to deliver a missive from their mistress. There's several letters from Eamon, two from Leonas, one from Warden's Vigil. One long scroll from the lay sister herself. Another from the Circle Tower."

"Anything for me?" Flora asked hopefully, the words interspersed with grimaces as she unknotted her hair. "Ouch, ow."

"Aye, lass. Your brothers have both written to you, as well as some fellow named _Oisín."_

"Oh!" the queen replied in delight, her hair wrapped in dark red skeins about her small fingers. "That's the engineer from Orzammar. He said he'd write when they started the work!"

Alistair smiled, pleased as ever to see his best friend happy. He poured a flagon of ale for his uncle and a cup of water for Flora, serving himself last.

The door opened to admit Zevran and Wynne, who had both been listening with an ear to the doors of their respective rooms for the arrival of breakfast. Alistair flailed inwardly for a moment at the senior enchanter's arrival, wondering if he should locate something more substantial than a tunic tied loosely around his waist.

"Don't mind me, dear boy," Wynne reassured him, with a hungry look in her eye that was not _entirely_ caused by catching sight of the breakfast tray. "Nothing I haven't seen before."

Flora contorted a grimacing smile up at her companions, working a particularly furious knot from her hair.

"Good morning," she breathed, watching Zevran polish an apple along his sleeve. "Wynne, you look pretty this morning. You look _radiant."_

Wynne shot herself a quick glance in the mirror, then returned the compliment with a beady stare.

"Whereas _you _look exhausted, Florence."

"The… the baby kept me up all night," replied Flora, wide-eyed and innocent.

Wynne's nostrils flared as she took a large bite from a piece of bread, perching on the bench beside the window.

"Batting your eyelashes won't work on me, child! My room was adjacent to yours, I know _full-well _why you look like you've had no sleep. Alistair, you should let your wife rest!"

Teagan coughed as Zevran let out a little giggle; they were only spared a lecherous comment by the elf's mouth being full of apple.

Alistair gaped for a moment, and then nodded his head with martyred resignation.

"You're right, Wynne," he said, nobly. "Sorry, Flo."

Flora, however, was not going to allow her best friend to take unfair blame.

"Oh, no," she countered, earnestly. "It wasn't _Alistair_ waking _me _up, it was the other way around. I think all my bodily humours are unbalanced, I keep either crying or wanting to…._you know."_

Bouncing on the bed to make the mattress squeak, Flora made a little illustrative gesture with her hands. The elf let out a cackle of sheer delight, and a bright-red Teagan accidentally spilled half a flagon of ale down the front of his tunic.

"Certain _urges _do tend to be a side effect of your condition, Florence," Wynne confirmed, taking a much more measured sip of her own ale. "Just make sure you let the poor boy get sufficient sleep! I can see dark shadows beneath his eyes, too."

"I would be _delighted _to offer my services, Alistair, if you find yourself too weary to _perform," _Zevran interjected gleefully, flashing Flora a wink. "I am only a door-knock away."

"I think I'll keep up with the demand, Zev, but thank you for the offer," Alistair replied drily, taking another mouthful of buttered bread.

After breakfast, the company descended to the farmhouse kitchen. This was a large, sunny space with high windows and wooden beams running across the ceiling; with several Mabari lounging before the open hearth and a long, pale wooden table running the entire length of the chamber. The air was fragranced by light green bundles of dried herbs and lavender hanging from the overhead beams.

Zevran, who had a keen memory and an artistic eye, had a map of South Reach spread out at the sunniest end of the table. He was carefully marking out the levels of damage to the different wards with a pencil; shading heaviest in the areas which had been obliterated by the Darkspawn. Leonas' letter, which had included the neatly folded map, requested an accurate depiction of the ruination brought to his family seat.

Alistair and Teagan sat nearby, their heads bowed together over the correspondence from Eamon. Several letters from the Chancellor had been bundled together; each one containing a dozen items of mundane and prosaic news from the capital. Repairs and reinforcements to the city wall had begun, the work was expected to take over six months – longer, if the autumn rains arrived early. The trade routes to the Marches had been fully re-opened after the Blight-enforced embargo, and the first few shiploads of Fereldan wool had been eagerly received. The Denerim port – in a single week – had welcomed spices from Antiva; copper and bronze ore from Rivain; bundles of raw silk from Orlais; and several hundred barrels of vodka from the Anderfels.

"Make sure the stonemasons don't get their hands on that last one," Alistair commented in mild alarm. "I don't want my new walls built crooked!"

Teagan smiled, adding this humorous aside to the bottom of their returning note to Eamon.

"It's not the most interesting read," he replied, dipping his quill in the inkwell and tapping the excess against the rim. "I'm afraid this is what official correspondence tends to be like, Alistair."

"But I _like_ that," the king replied in dry tones. "I'd much rather read about all the goods traded through the Denerim port than about… a horde of Darkspawn swarming the walls, say. Or blood mages invading through the sewers."

Wynne snorted, tilting her letter from the Circle towards the light streaming in through the high windows.

Flora, sat beside the elderly mage with only a few fishing-knots remaining in her hair, was trying to pluck up the courage to tackle her own correspondence. The letter from the engineer had been so hideously intimidating – full of long words and scrawled at an unintelligible angle – that she had hastily placed it to one side.

Instead, Flora picked up the missives from her brothers, deciding to start with the one that bore the navy wax stamp of Highever. Breaking the seal, she unfolded the square of parchment and immediately had to bite back a laugh. Fergus was less familiar with his sister's level of literacy, and had taken her request for _clear, well-spaced_ handwriting rather _too_ literally. Each inked letter was an inch tall, the words spaced so far apart that barely a dozen could fit onto the page.

_Dear Florence, _she mouthed to herself, recognising the shapes of these familiar opening words. _Hope... you- you – and…Baby… are wool. Well. Love – Fu- Fungus._

_Fergus._

Flora beamed, placing the letter to one side.

"Sweetheart," Alistair called down the table, waving a sheet of parchment in her direction. "Eamon wants to know how you and the baby are, my love."

"I'm- "

"_Lusty!" _Zevran offered helpfully, lifting his eyes from the map.

Alistair shot the elf a stern look, his golden brows drawing together.

"I can't tell Eamon that Flo is _lusty,"_ he chided, ink dripping down his fingers. "Darling, what should I put?"

"Put that I'm well," Flora replied diplomatically; the little creature fidgeting in her belly as it woke up from a nap. "And the baby is… _wriggly."_

She put Fergus' letter to one side and picked up Finian's, feeling a slight twinge of nervousness in her gut. Finian understood well her level of literacy, since he had read with her on dozens of occasions. However – a true scholar at heart – he always tried to nudge Flora beyond the bounds of her own capability; reasoning that she would never improve if she stayed within the realm of comfort. Finian's hand was clear and the letters neatly spaced at intervals, but the content itself was always more of a challenge. Usually, Flora would only tackle his correspondence with the aid of one of her companions.

She glanced discretely around the table, confirming what she already suspected. Alistair and Teagan were murmuring quietly over the contents of the letter from Warden's Vigil; Wynne was scribing a response to Irving at impressively rapid speeds; Zevran was carefully inking in the extent of damage on the South Reach map. Everybody was preoccupied with their own business, and so Flora took a deep breath and prepared to embark upon the letter independently.

_Dear Floss._

_Off to a good start!_

_Dear Floss, –_

Flora felt the first distinct curls of nausea begin to sprout in her belly, yet she was unable to blame this unpleasant curdling on the baby. She stared down at her brother's simple writing, blinking at the third word of the letter as though hoping to bring it into focus. Unhelpfully, the black ink seemed to jump about the page and form itself into a new letter each time that she looked at it.

Taking a deep breath, she skipped the third word and moved onto the fourth. To her relief, this one said _'the', _and she recognised it immediately. Unfortunately, the fifth and the sixth word were as unintelligible as the third.

Flora felt her cheeks flush pink with shame, a hot rush of embarrassment surging upwards from her stomach. She sat on the bench and swallowed a painful lump that had formed in her throat; suddenly wishing that she had not asked her brothers to write to her. Around her, the others read and wrote with ease, the silence broken by soft scratches of quills against parchment.

_Zevran can read perfectly well, _thought Flora miserably, watching the elf annotate the map of South Reach in a fluent hand. _And he was an orphan raised by assassins; he's never had any formal schooling. I was taught in the Circle for four years, and I didn't even pick up the letters of the alphabet._

The sun inched its way up to the apex of the sky, flooding the farmhouse kitchen with mellow, buttery light. Alistair used one of the beeswax candles to melt a pale circle onto his returning letter to Eamon, stamping it with the Theirin seal he wore on the fifth finger of his hand. This great ring had once belonged to Cailan, formerly to Maric, and before even _that_ it had been in the possession of the Rebel Queen's ill-fated father.

"How are you getting on, Zev?" Alistair asked cheerfully, relieved that the correspondence had not taken more than a handful of hours.

"Just finished," the elf replied, lowering his pencil and surveying his work triumphantly. "An exceptionally accurate replication, even if I say so myself. I keep forgetting that I have _quite _the artistic hand, since it was not a skill particularly valued by the Crows."

Alistair grinned, his eyes moving down the table to where Flora sat quietly beside Wynne. She had been pretending to read Finian's letter for nearly an hour, staring mindlessly at the unintelligible words while trying not to cry.

"How about you, Flo? What did Fergus have to say, I could see the size of those letters through the parchment!"

"He hoped that me and the baby were well," Flora replied, forcing some normality into her voice and hoping that Alistair would not enquire any further.

"What about Finn?"

Flora swallowed, feeling heat prickle in the corners of her eyes. Trying to keep the evenness in her tone, she cleared her throat before replying.

"He… he said…"

She trailed off, and there was an expectant pause. Wynne looked up from her letter to Irving, eyebrows rising.

"_He said..."_ whispered Flora once more, and then tears finally began to drip down her cheeks as the embarrassment and frustration became too potent to hide. "I don't know what he said. I- I can't read it_. _I'm so_ stupid!"_

As Flora's voice broke mid-sentence, the startled occupants of the table all stared at her in dismay. Alistair's face contorted with mingled shock and horror, almost falling over the bench in his haste to stand. He rounded the table in a handful of long-legged strides, sinking to the bench beside Flora and drawing her protectively into his side with a strong arm.

"Darling," he breathed, turning her face towards him and inhaling sharply at the volume of tears coursing down her cheeks. "My love. What's all this? Of course you aren't _stupid."_

"But I can't – I can't read it," Flora wept plaintively, crumpling Finian's letter into a ball with a sudden burst of frustration. "All you've taught me over the past year has been for nothing. I still can't do it."

Alistair was now almost in tears himself, horrified at seeing his wife in such distress. He gathered Flora up against his chest and patted her back, murmuring into her ear as she sobbed broken-heartedly into his shoulder.

"There's something _wrong with me!"_

"Darling, there's nothing _wrong _with you," he assured her, his own voice unsteady. "You're the most _right _girl in Thedas."

"But, bu-u-t-"

"_Flora," _interjected Wynne briskly, from Alistair's other side.

Flora opened her eyes promptly; four years of conditioned response to a senior instructor was hard to ignore.

"Flora, who is the _cleverest_ person you know?"

"You," replied Flora, without hesitation.

"Thank you. Who else, child?"

"Lel- Leliana."

"And?"

"My dad."

Wynne nodded encouragingly, her pale blue eyes searching Flora's tear-stained face.

"And why is he so clever?"

"He… he can catch _any _fish in the Waking Sea," Flora whispered, wiping her nose surreptitiously on Alistair's tunic as he slid a comforting palm up and down her back. "He can make a dozen different types of hook out of one piece of wire. He knows how to repair a boat that's been broken into pieces by a storm. He can read the weather for a week based on a single sunset."

"And does he know his letters?"

"N-no."

"Exactly, child," retorted Wynne, matter-of-factly. "Cleverness has got nothing to do with whether or not you can read and write_. _So I don't want to hear you calling yourself _stupid_ again, do you understand?"

Flora nodded, her damp grey gaze moving across to Teagan as the bann cleared his throat.

"Petal, there's a good amount of men in the Landsmeet who haven't put pen to paper since they were children," he offered, quietly. "They've forgotten even how to spell their own names; they have secretaries who read and write in their stead. And they rule their lands wisely and effectively."

Flora inhaled unsteadily, the tears drying on her cheeks as the lump of sadness in her throat gradually began to dissolve. The words of her companions, combined with the comforting, familiar warmth of Alistair's physical presence, had managed to calm her down to the point where she was now growing embarrassed at her own melodramatic outburst.

"My love," Alistair murmured, rubbing his thumb soothingly around the curve of her ear in the same way that he had once done in the darkest parts of the Deep Roads. "Let's try it together, hm? Two heads are better than one, after all."

He smoothed Finian's letter out against the wood with his palm as a sniffing Flora shifted back around to face the table. Instead of removing his hand, he let one long, strong finger rest across the page; underlining the top row of words to help her focus.

"Remember, darling, it stops the letters from moving about the parchment when we do this," he murmured, more familiar with the limitations of Flora's literacy than anyone else in the room. "Now, let's have a go at this first bit."

"'_Dear Floss_,'" she said, still teary eyed. "I don't know the next word."

"Speak the letters out loud," he instructed, softly. "Remember, sweetheart, all the words we speak are made up of only twenty six of them."

"U-n-f-o-r-t-u-n-a-t-e-l-y," Flora whispered, spelling out the word that now sat placid and unmoving above his broad, tawny finger. "Un- unf- _unfort? Unfortunately! _Oh! is that right?"

Alistair grinned at her in confirmation, as she blinked in surprise.

"It's right, my love. Keep going!"

"'_Dear Floss'_," Flora read, obediently. _"'Unfortunately, the w-e-a-t- _wet, wheat – _weather! _b-bod.. _bodes – I'll – ill. _This… this… week_ 'Unfortunately the weather bodes ill this week'?"_

Her voice rose upwards at the end in a question, her eyes turned anxiously on Alistair. He beamed, nodded and leaned forward to kiss her on the nose.

"_Perfect, _Lo. See, you _can _do it."

Flora, temporarily speechless, put her arms about her best friend's neck and clung to him. Alistair spread his palm over the small of her back, rubbing a thumb into the aching parts of her spine.

"You know," Zevran whispered in Teagan's ear, soft and amused. "My heart is _oothed_ by seeing how well-suited they are for each other. It's terribly confusing."

Teagan coughed, and let out a soft, embarrassed grunt. He wondered in alarm if Zevran had chosen to confess this to _him _because the elf had recognised a similar yearning. The bann had hoped that his inappropriate ardour would fade, either after the ring was placed on Flora's finger, or when her belly continued to swell with the fruits of another man's loins. Unfortunately, Teagan continued to be tormented by facsimiles of his shameless desire during his night-time ventures into the Fade; frequently enough that he still felt the need to confess them on his next visit to a Chantry.

Meanwhile, Alistair was still embracing his wife, relieved that he had managed to alleviate her sadness.

"I'm so proud of what you've accomplished with your reading this year," he breathed into her hair, brushing his lips against her ear. "My beautiful bookworm."

Flora had no idea what a '_book' worm_ was, but had a great appreciation for _worms _in general; after using them as bait on fish-hooks for years. She rested her chin on Alistair's shoulder, feeling the baby give a wriggle in response to their muffled voices.

Alistair also felt the movement beneath the fabric of her tunic, his eyes softening to the green-flecked shade of bruised apples. Drawing back, he lowered his head to kiss the wool-covered curve; blissfully ignorant of anything else other than his wife and his unborn child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Aaaah this was a bittersweet chapter to write! I wanted to communicate Flora's frustration with her own limited literacy. She's got what we now call dyslexia – which was only named as a condition in the late 1800s, and was actually called 'word blindness' at first – but naturally, this isn't a known thing in Ferelden. I have a sister who has mild dyslexia (and is now a Cambridge educated engineer, so it clearly didn't stop her!) and I remember her describing how the letters used to wriggle around the page and turn upside-down. Anyway, I think that Flo's struggles with her reading are an important part of her character. Plus, all frustrations are augmented by her unstable emotions due to the baby, hehe. Hope you enjoyed it!


	89. Ill News From Warden's Vigil

The company would be departing South Reach shortly after lunch, bound westward towards Lake Calenhad and the Circle Tower. As preparations were made and carts restocked, Alistair, Teagan, Ser Gilmore and the rest of the South Reach committee left to venture once more into the ruins of the lower town. One of the alchemists had devised a test using elfroot and ground charcoal that tested the purity of a water source. Alistair had taken the map that Zevran had carefully annotated earlier, determined to mark down any sources of clean water. A sample of tainted liquid would also be collected and brought to Kinloch Hold for experimental purposes.

Initially, Alistair had been loath to leave his wife within the farmhouse, and had almost sent Teagan to collect the water samples in his stead. Wynne had delivered a kind – yet stern – reminder to the king that he had brought both herself and the elf precisely to look after Flora's wellbeing.

Alistair had dithered in the doorway of the sunny farmhouse kitchen for several minutes; staring at the delicate protrusion of Flora's collarbone as it pushed up against the creamy flesh of her chest. She was sitting at the table beside Wynne, barefoot on the limestone tiles, her hair tied with a loose navy ribbon at the nape of her pale neck. The curve of the baby – which stood out prominently against the slender frame of its mother – was barely protected by the thin wool of Flora's tunic.

_She's so vulnerable, _he thought to himself with a sudden convulsion of fear. _She's a girl who's never worn armour or wielded a weapon a day in her life. She's never been drilled, or trained, or educated in the art of defence. She's always relied on her spirits to protect her, and now they're gone._

"We'll be fine," the senior enchanter said, her tone sharpening. "I assure you that ghouls will not swarm the steading in the hour that you are absent."

"And if they try, they will not get far," Zevran added, canting his head towards the pair of wickedly sharp, curving blades resting incongruously on the pale oak table.

Alistair nodded, then descended the three steps back into the kitchen; boots echoing against the stone tiles. Flora lifted up her arms to embrace him, directing a sly whisper into his ear as he bent to kiss her farewell. Alistair let out a slightly throaty laugh, his eyes darkening as he returned her desirous stare.

"Really, my love? You are?"

She nodded, biting at her lip as she gazed plaintively up at him.

Alistair coughed, then glanced over his shoulder to where Teagan and the rest of the South Reach committee were waiting.

"Ah – I'll just be ten minutes or so- "

"Ten minutes? Are you going to do it _twice?!" _enquired Zevran_, _sweet and malicious.

Alistair shot the elf an equally evil stare, eyes narrowing.

"My stamina has _much_ improved in that regard, thank you very much!"

"Oh, it has?"

"_Yes."_

"Really? And your _proof…?"_

"My proof - _Flo_, come upstairs, sweetheart!"

But Flora had risen to her feet and wandered off towards the pantry, stomach rumbling.

"Actually, I'm not lusty anymore," she replied, oblivious. "Now I'm _hungry. _I want a snack."

"_Go, Alistair!" _snarled Wynne, finally losing her patience. "Or it'll be _Satinalia_ and we'll still be sat in a South Reach farmhouse."

Reluctantly, the king departed in the company of Ser Gilmore, Teagan and the South Reach blacksmith-turned-mayor. Ferelden's queen returned to the pale oak table clutching an overripe pear and stepping over a yawning Mabari.

As the sun inched its way leisurely through the sky, Wynne helped Flora to scribe her responses to both Fergus and Finian. Flora copied out the senior enchanter's sentences, her brow furrowed in concentration. Recalling Alistair's broad finger resting across the page, she used the edge of a spare sheet of parchment to act as a steadying rule. This measure helped to keep the inked letters from turning upside down, back to front, or generally misbehaving.

Once she had written her replies to her brothers, Flora sat back on the bench to accommodate the baby's fidgeting, watching Wynne continue to add more lines to her letter to Irving. This had now turned into a scroll nearly two foot long; privately, Flora was unsure whether the raven would even be able to carry it.

On the other side of the table, Zevran appeared to be having similar thoughts. He eyed the senior enchanter's busily scratching quill, one white-blond eyebrow raised to his hairline.

"Are you writing a novel, my dear Wynne? A sequel to Leliana's great epic, '_The Lion and the Light'?"_

Wynne snorted, ending a sentence with a flourish before peering across at the elf.

"There's a lot to talk about. Irving will be eagerly awaiting my missive, let me assure you. He's been rushed off his feet for the past two months, overseeing the cleansing of the Circle."

"Is it mostly fixed now?" asked Flora, tapping her fingers absentmindedly over her stomach. "Bann Teagan said that Connor had been moved down there, with the other apprentices."

Wynne nodded, pressing the cork back into the ink-pot with one black splattered thumb.

"The lower floors have been wholly purged of corruption. Only the very uppermost room – the Harrowing chamber – still requires cleansing. The Templars, instructors and apprentices have all moved back in."

Flora blinked for a moment; she had only been on this particular floor twice, and neither time was for a good reason. She could not remember the details of her own Harrowing – her spirits had slain the demon sent to test her in the Fade – but she could remember all too well those who had succumbed to Uldred's lure. Abominations had roamed freely on the top floor of Kinloch Hold; terrible, mangled effigies of their former selves.

"I'm looking forward to seeing Connor," Flora said, forcing the image determinedly from her mind. "I hope he doesn't ask me to make a golden _Peraquialus _again. I'd have to disappoint him."

"He can make one for you instead, _mi sirenita."_

Flora smiled at Zevran, brightening at the prospect.

"Oh! Yes. I'd like that a lot."

Wynne finished her letter with a small sigh, tapping the excess ink from her quill and letting it lean against the pot. With deft, navy splattered fingers, she rolled up the long skein of parchment into a tight roll. Out of consideration to Flora – who still winced whenever magic was used in her proximity – the senior enchanter used a more prosaic means of melting wax to seal the letter.

Flora yawned, suddenly weary from the afternoon's exertions. She rested her elbows on the table and propped her chin in her hands, feeling the baby settle down for a nap within her belly.

"Ah, Flora. Speaking of the Circle, I've some news that might interest you."

Zevran, eternally nosy, looked up in synchrony with the sleepy-eyed Flora. They both peered across the pale oak table towards Wynne, who was taking a measured gulp of elderflower wine.

"Is it about the rebuilding?" Flora asked, stifling another yawn.

"No," replied the senior enchanter, setting the glass back down on the wood. "It's about your former Warden-Commander, Duncan Rivaini."

Flora blinked and sat up a little straighter; all tiredness swept away with the utterance of her old mentor's name. She inhaled, leaning forward eagerly on the table.

"_Duncan," _she breathed, grateful that his richly tanned, fine-lined face still rose to the forefront of her mind without effort. "What about him?"

"Apparently, he and a scholar of the Marches exchanged a series of letters between August and Harvestmere of last year. After Ostagar, the Warden-Commander of the Marches sent Duncan's letters on to the Circle for safekeeping."

"And they survived what befell the Tower afterwards?" Zevran enquired, light and curious.

Wynne gave a nod, her soft blue gaze gently probing Flora's own wide-eyed stare.

"Irving thought it fitting that they be bequeathed to you and Alistair," she said, quietly. "I don't know what the contents are, but they're waiting for you once we get to Kinloch Hold."

The men returned from South Reach an hour or so later, with the samples of water in hand. Alistair, who had fretted without cessation from the moment that his horse departed the farmhouse, dismounted the mare before it had even come to a stop in the stable yard; striding across the cobbles and pushing through the door leading to the steps that descended to the sunny farmhouse kitchen.

He found Zevran and Wynne playing a game of dice at the long table, with their bags already packed and sitting beside them. Flora - who had eaten too much pickled beetroot - was slumped in a nearby threadbare armchair, caught up in the pangs of indigestion and sulking.

The party prepared to depart South Reach shortly after lunch, with the carts restocked and supplies replenished. The horses were also eager to be off; they were purebred, highly intelligent Fereldan Forders who could detect unease in the air like a foul miasma. The great bluff of South Reach – with its castle filled with restless dead – rose up like a great headstone from the plains.

The company would briefly re-join the Imperial Highway, colloquially known as the West Road, as it meandered towards Lake Calenhad. Before they reached Ferelden's largest inland lake, they would arrive at the most sombre waypoint of their entire journey – the Darkspawn-swarmed village of Lothering.

The Lothering restoration committee – also overseen by Leonas Bryland, since it fell within the demesne of South Reach – had not yet left Denerim. They were waiting for reports back as to the condition of the land and buildings; unsure if they would ever be able to return to their original hometown. If the land had been tainted beyond revival, there were plans to relocate the town several miles to the north. This theoretical settlement would be named New Lothering, in honour of its Blighted predecessor.

Still, Alistair had hopes that the original town would have survived the onslaught by the Darkspawn. The majority of South Reach was still intact, despite the ghouls resident in the castle. When the king broached this possibility to Teagan, the bann gave a noncommittal grunt in response.

The company rode north along the same trail they had followed several days prior. The flat plains gradually began to mould themselves into the rolling hills of the Bannorn, the grassy undulation broken by copses of trees and the occasional crumbling shepherd's hut. There were no livestock visible in any of the abandoned, overgrown fields; the only signs of life other than their own company were the birds wheeling on summery breezes overhead. In the distance they could see the white spine of the Imperial Highway running over the hilltops.

Ser Gilmore, riding alongside Wynne at the head of the column, had grown bold enough to offer a song to the placid air. He had a high, clear tenor that was pleasing to the ear, though the senior enchanter privately worried that it might inspire their atonal queen to join in the chorus.

Wynne need not have worried: Flora was entirely preoccupied with her own aching belly. She had eaten far too much beetroot and was suffering from deeply uncomfortable indigestion. Slumped backwards on the saddle with her face against Alistair's chest, she was letting out a low, incoherent and continuous groan.

"Is this _normal?" _Alistair muttered to Teagan, who was riding at their side. "Poor Flo's had bellyache for hours."

Teagan gave a helpless shrug, lacking experience in such matters.

"It's _perfectly normal," _Wynne called from the front of the party; tiring of Alistair fretting over every one of his wife's aches and pains. "The greedy creature stuffed herself so full of beets that I'm surprised she hasn't turned _purple."_

Flora let out a soft moan against Alistair's shoulder, and he pressed an anxious kiss to the top of her head.

"She _is_ eating for two," he retorted, coming to his whimpering wife's defence.

"More like _two hundred," _whispered Zevran with a giggle. "I appreciate a girl with an appetite."

A short time later they stopped near a small spring to water the horses. They were a mile's distance from the Blight scar but the scout still tested the pool with elfroot tincture to check that it was safe to drink. Once the purity of the spring was established, the company paused to take a short rest; the horses lowering white-striped muzzles to the water while their riders sat beneath the shade of several weeping willows. Wrapped hunks of bread were passed around, along with golden Denerim apples and plump crimson tomatoes.

"These are almost – _almost _– as good as those grown on the coast of Antiva," Zevran admitted, reluctant as ever to praise any Fereldan foodstuff. "They'd be better mashed into a purée with white wine and spices, of course."

Alistair grinned, absentmindedly brushing breadcrumbs from Flora's cheek as she lay dozing with her head in his lap.

"They're from Guillaume's garden. He's got some herbal concoction that he adds to the soil. I don't know what's in it, but Flo was eating the earth in handfuls when we visited there last."

"Have you told her the contents of Loghain's letter yet?"

Wynne fixed Alistair with a pointed stare across the grass; one silver eyebrow rising to her hairline. Alistair grimaced, lowering his voice.

"No," he said, reluctantly. "I don't want to worry her."

"What was in Loghain's letter, exactly?" Zevran chimed in, immediately curious. "I saw you frown when reading it earlier. You ought not pull such faces, it'll put dents in that smooth, noble brow of yours."

Alistair glanced down at his wife to confirm that she was still asleep; her cheek resting against his thigh. Even so, he lowered his voice further to ensure that his words did not somehow penetrate her sleeping mind.

"There's been a Darkspawn attack on Vigil's Keep," he said, quietly. "And it's not the first – the keep has been attacked twice this month. It almost seems like an _organised_ assault."

For all his playful chiding about not creasing one's forehead, Zevran's own brow furrowed as he registered Alistair's words.

"But that makes no sense," he said, after a few moments. "The Archdemon is dead. Who is commanding them?"

"That's the question," Alistair retorted grimly, his fingers smoothing a stray lock of hair behind Flora's ear. "And what the Wardens will need to investigate. I have greater things to worry about than isolated Darkspawn attacks – I've got the welfare of the entire country to consider."

"And your former sister-warden?"

Alistair grimaced, reflexively glancing down at his oblivious wife as she lay curled on the damp grass at his side.

"There's nothing that Flora can do to aid the situation," he said, softly. "And everything she _can't _do will just upset her, especially since Vigil's Keep is in her brother's arling. I won't have her worrying, Zev. She's already fretting enough about Lothering."

"Well, that is understandable," Zevran replied with equal quietness. "Although she will not be happy if she finds out that you have been hiding such news from her."

"Lo can get as angry as she wishes," the king said, with a rueful smile creeping over her features. "_After _the baby is born."

Alistair reached down to stroke his wife's cheek with a thumb, the smile rapidly dissipating from his handsome features.

"I really thought our troubles would be over once the Blight was ended. I think the Maker must have some sort of grudge against Ferelden. What's next, an invasion of giants from the Waking Sea? Angry bees from Antiva?"

He let out a humourless bark of laughter, bowing his head with the weight of the invisible crown.

"Let the Wardens deal with it, lad," Teagan advised, quietly. "It sounds like a localised problem, and – as much as I hate to admit it – Mac Tir is a capable leader. And that Orlesian woman Leonie Caron seems reasonably competent."

Alistair nodded, taking a thoughtlessly large bite of a particularly juicy tomato. It burst between his teeth, sending pink droplets splattering down the front of his tunic.

"Ah, Maker's Breath!" he muttered, easing Flora's head gently down onto the grass and clambering upright. "I had to pick the ripest one from the bunch."

Pulling the tomato-stained tunic over his head, he strode bare-chested to the cart and began to rummage through the leather packs in search of spare clothing. Wynne lifted her glass appraising lens to one eye with a soft _hm _of appreciation, as Zevran leaned back on his elbows and unashamedly ogled the king's broad, bronzed shoulders.

"I wouldn't bother with the shirt, _amor_," the elf called lightly over the grass, his eyes moving over the corded muscle of Alistair's back. "Why don't you spend the afternoon developing that _tan _instead? You're going as brown as a nut."

Flora, who had started to stir at the mention of _giants from the Waking Sea, _now yawned and hunched upright, rubbing her bleary eyes with a hand.

"Ooh," she said in mild dismay, realising that she had missed out on an opportunity for a snack. "Have you all been _eating _without me?"

This irritation was quickly soothed as her gaze settled on her shirtless husband, as he rooted through his pack. Flora's mouth fell open and she sat up straight in the grass; eyes widening with naked appreciation.

"Aah, isn't he _muscly?" _she breathed to the person sat closest to her, which happened to be Teagan. "Look how _strong and manly _he is."

"Uh," said the bann, not entirely sure how to respond. "I… won't disagree with you, petal."

Flora nodded, practically salivating as Alistair turned towards them with a clean tunic in his hands. His face brightened on seeing her smile – it was the first time in several hours that she had not been contorted with indigestion.

"My love," he breathed, pushing his arms through the tunic. "How do you feel?"

"A lot better," Flora replied, resisting the urge to bellow _LUSTY! _across the clearing. "You're so handsome."

Alistair grinned, secretly delighted at his wife's blatant admiration.

"Stop, you're going to make me blush," he chided, striding across the damp grass towards her while fastening the lower buttons. "I'm glad you're feeling better, darling."

As he crouched before her, she let out a small sound of protest and began to ineffectually tug at his tunic; pulling it back up over the taut abdominal muscle.

"I don't want you to put your shirt back on," she breathed. "Can't you keep it off?"

"What, and ride around Ferelden half-naked?" Alistair replied, breaking into a laugh. _"Behold, freemen – your topless majesty!"_

"Mmm," said his wife distractedly, reaching forward to spread her palms greedily over his bronzed stomach. "ALL MINE."

"Leave the poor boy alone!" chided Wynne from across the clearing, nostrils flaring. "You must try and _control _these inappropriate urges!"

_Well, I don't want to control them, _Flora thought to herself, slightly sulkily. _I want to ride my husband behind a bush._

_Oh dear, this is a bit ridiculous. I need a bucket of Waking Sea tide-water tipped over my head._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: OK I wanted to end this chapter on a lighter note, considering the grim news that the Darkspawn have been assaulting Vigil's Keep! Although this sequel focuses on the rebuilding on Ferelden and Alistair/Flo as the new monarchs, it's important for me to remember that the events of Awakening are occurring too.
> 
> So strange how all the Dragon Age months have fantasy-type names, and then you randomly have 'August', lol. It sounds almost as wrong as the names of weekdays being Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, etc…


	90. A Deluge Under Canvas

By mid-afternoon, the company had re-joined the Imperial Highway. The elevated road carved an elegant line through the hills of the bannorn; and was in remarkably good condition considering that maintenance had been halted during the Blight. A noncommittal sun drifted lazily in and out of the clouds, and there was a humidity in the air that suggested that inclement weather was rolling in.

As evening neared, so did the anticipated storm. The ears of the horses flickered; like most animals, they were sensitive to subtle changes in the barometric pressure of the atmosphere. The Mabari trotting at their hooves were also on edge, snapping their jaws at the electricity-charged air and whimpering.

The humidity increased in exponential increments, and soon the company found themselves loosening buttons and rolling up the sleeves of their tunic. The men of the party found themselves removing as much of their clothing as they felt comfortable doing – only a fear of saddle-sores prevented Zevran from going fully nude. Flora, who was already sweating due to the fluctuations of her body, was miserable in the sticky heat. She was fiercely jealous of the men, who could freely strip off their shirts without censure. In compromise, Alistair had borrowed one of Zevran's sharp blades and cut off her breeches above the knee.

They stopped their horses at a crumbling guard tower just as an ominous roll of thunder echoed over the nearby hills. The scout offered the map to Alistair, gesturing with a finger to their planned campsite for the night. It was another hour's ride further west, but the summer evening's light would prove sufficient for them to ride with. As they conferred in low tones, the first plump drops of rain began to fall on the unfolded parchment. The scout hastily tucked the map back into his tunic, and Alistair swung himself up onto the saddle behind Flora.

The rain only worsened as the sky grew darker; great, heavy drops splattering against their heads and the coarse-haired flanks of the horses. The thunder rolled once more, louder and longer; preceded by a flash of lightning that illuminated the Bannorn bright as day. Fortunately, the palace horses and hounds were intelligent enough not to startle at such unexpected noise.

As a native northerner Flora did not usually mind the rain, but this felt more like a torrent of watery, tepid stew falling from the sky. She was unsure whether her damp shirt was clinging to her collarbone with rain or sweat, not that she particularly cared about the answer. Alistair's arm was wrapped tight and protective about her waist; it was making her even hotter, but she knew that he would not readily loosen it.

They rode on for another hour, the rain increasing in volume and ferocity. Large, luke-warm drops were being blown sideways into their faces by a vicious, storm-funnelled breeze, and the wind itself was howling discontentedly through the shallow valleys of the Bannorn.

Finally, Alistair decided that enough was enough. The light level had dropped so rapidly that even lanterns made little headway against the encroaching gloom, and it was increasingly difficult to see the roadway beneath the horses' hooves. Raising his voice, he called for the company to descend from the elevated highway; they would not attempt to reach their planned destination in the circumstances. Instead, they would make camp beside the ruins of a guard tower, where the crumbling stone walls might provide some protection from the elements.

The horses huddled together beneath a sparsely-branched tree, while the others constructed their tents in quickly worsening conditions. There was a strange cast to the night sky, a sickly pallor illuminated at intervals by lightning tearing across the horizon. The jagged contortions of electricity ripped through the atmosphere, striking the grassy peaks of the Bannorn in ever-closer proximity. The accompanying rolls of thunder sounded like an invading Orlesian army, echoing about the hills like the drums of war.

The wind had died down but the rain continued in what could now only be described as a _torrent. _The members of the company were soaked to the skin – even Zevran's oiled leathers could not withstand the sheer volume of water. The elf, cursing the Fereldan so-called _summer _in fluent Antivan, had built his tent in record time and then retreated to the meagre shelter of the guard tower wall.

There was no hope of building any sort of fire, the rain's only redeeming feature was that it was tepid in temperature. They ate huddled and separate inside their tents, sitting on sodden bedrolls; each one praying that their waxed canvas roofs would not collapse under the deluge. Since there was no fire for cooking, they ate chunks of bread and cheese, with salted strips of meat and raw vegetables for the queen.

Alistair had ventured into Teagan's tent to clarify tomorrow's route. The map had nearly disintegrated into wet scraps of parchment by the time he had ducked beneath the canvas entrance flap; fortunately, they had several spare rolled up in leather tubes.

"Alistair, stop fidgeting," Teagan reprimanded him gently after a few moments. "It's only a- "

The last part of his sentence was drowned out by a loud roll of thunder. Alistair grimaced, running his fingers through his wet hair until it stood on end.

"I don't want to leave Flo for too long," he said, piecing together the map where it had come apart. "She's on her own in the tent. Have you ridden either of these roads before?"

"Aye," replied Teagan, letting his fingertip skate gently over the inked line. "The road across the marshes is sound, or at least it was when I last rode it. The high track over the hill is faster, but it'll be waterlogged after tonight's rain."

"We'll take the marshes road," decided Alistair, grimacing as a drop of rain rolled down the back of his neck. "Uncle, do you think there'll be anything left of Lothering?"

The bann paused for a moment, his brow creasing. He reached beneath his sodden bedroll and pulled out a small flask of whiskey, taking several long gulps before offering it to Alistair. The rain was hammering down on the oiled canvas above their heads in a constant, percussive rhythm.

"Here, take it back to your tent. It'll be cold once the storm passes and the ground cools. You don't want Flora catching a chill."

"I'll keep her warm," the earnest Alistair replied, but took the flask anyway. "Lothering?"

Teagan sighed, knowing that, _for some reason,_ both former Wardens were fixated on this one small village within the arling of South Reach. Privately, he believed that Lothering had been destroyed – the refugees who had flooded into Denerim told bloodcurdling stories that raised the hairs on the back of one's neck when listened to. However, Teagan was determined to keep a positive mind-set for both Alistair and Flora's benefit; there was nothing to be gained in prophesying doom.

"I don't know, Alistair," he replied, softly. "I would hope that some part of it might remain, and that more still could be salvaged. The horde didn't linger in the village, did they?"

Droplets of water ran in rivulets down the interior of the tent, pooling at the bottom of the damp canvas. Teagan shifted his bedroll several inches away from the increasing puddle, as Alistair spoke up in eventual reply.

"They didn't stay there long, no. The Darkspawn horde turned around and went south to Gwaren."

"Then perhaps the village hasn't been obliterated. We have no way of knowing until we arrive."

"The day after tomorrow?"

"Aye, lad."

Alistair gave a pensive sigh, momentarily lost in his own thoughts. Eventually he roused himself and bade his uncle goodnight, taking a deep breath in preparation to venture out into the deluge.

A fresh crack of lightning tore across the sky as he ducked out through the canvas, and for a split-second, the Bannorn was lit up as bright as day. The thunder followed almost immediately on its electric cousin's tail, crashing through the clouds like the wrath of some ancient, vengeful god.

There was no light or movement from any of the other tents in their party. Not even the soft glow of Wynne's staff was radiating out from the canvas. Usually, the senior enchanter maintained a record of the day's travels in her journal; tonight, she had clearly decided to cut her losses and retire early.

Before returning to his own tent, Alistair went to check on the horses. They appeared wet but contented enough, lying in the shelter of the crumbling tower with blankets piled across their hindquarters. They were Royal steeds and trained not to frighten at the sound of a storm; he still spent time with each in turn, murmuring in their ears and scratching their noses gently.

Brushing the rain-dampened straggles of hair from his eyes, the king made his way back to the ragged ring of tents, heading back to the accommodation that he shared with his wife. Pulling back the canvas, he ducked inside, careful not to tread on their tangled packs.

"It's really _chucking_ it down out there," he whispered, letting the entrance flap drop shut in his wake. "The Maker is tipping out His bathwater."

He knew better than to ask Flora if she was frightened – she was a native of the northern coast, where far more violent storms tore apart the sky on a recurring basis. Flora smiled up at him, idly weaving together strands of crimson hair as she lay on the saturated bedroll.

"Mm," she whispered, yawning. "It's not much better in here."

Alistair was about to smile back down at her, when he noticed that she was lying nonchalantly in a puddle of water; the bedroll oversaturated and unable to absorb any more liquid. His eyes widened and he inhaled sharply, pulling off his boots and kneeling down with a soft _squelch _at her side.

"My love," he breathed, reaching out to touch her cheek. "You're _cold! _and _wet! _Maker's Breath. Come on, let's sort ourselves out. I won't have this!"

Five minutes later and they were both sharing body heat beneath a reasonably dry embroidered blanket; her curled up on top of his bare chest and his broad arm circling her shoulders. Alistair had gallantly elected to lie in the puddle, determined that not a single inch of his fat-bellied wife was going to touch the soggy bedroll.

Flora, who had been at the mercy of raging hormones all day, gave a little happy squirm; gratified at the responding twitch of flesh against her thigh.

"You minx," Alistair chided, sternly. "We're only naked to share the warmth better between us."

"Oh," breathed Flora, a memory from many months prior breaking the surface of her mind. "Remember when we used to cuddle together in our smallclothes to stay warm during the winter? When we were travelling to the Temple of Sacred Ashes."

Alistair let out a little grunt, sliding his palm up and down her bare back. He remembered all too clearly; they had lain entwined like lovers on the bedroll even before they had shared a kiss.

"Of course I remember, darling," he admitted, cheerfully. "Having a beautiful, half-naked girl pressed up against me for hours at night? It was bloody _torture._"

"But we did keep each other warm," Flora recalled, pulling the blanket up around her shoulders. "Ow, what's that?"

Her most recent fidgeting motion had shifted her weight onto something hard and angular. Alistair reached an arm down to pull out the silver flask that Teagan had given him, awkwardly removing the lid between clenched teeth.

"It's whiskey. Have some, my love. It'll warm you up."

"_You're _warming me up well enough," Flora retorted with a little grimace, but took the flask anyway. From her awkward angle sprawled on his bare chest, she managed to splash a mouthful approximately between her lips. Her body was no longer able to distil the liquor into yeast and water; the alcohol burned on her tongue and irritated the back of her throat.

"Ugh," she croaked, suppressing a cough. "I don't like it."

Alistair took the flask and gulped a mouthful for himself, eyes creasing as he squinted at the alcohol's potency.

"Who did my uncle _get_ this stuff from – dwarves? You couldn't drink too much of it at a time, that's for sure."

He reached out to deposit the flask onto the bedroll; hearing a small splash as it landed in the puddle. Returning his arm about his best friend's shoulders, he kissed the top of her head.

"Are you warm enough, my sweet wife?"

Flora nodded, dropping a hand to her stomach as the baby shifted position.

"Are _you _warm enough?" she breathed, anxiously. "I don't want you to catch a cold."

"Don't worry about me, darling. I have the constitution of an ox!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love to listen to the rain but only if I'm inside, lol. I hate being outside in it, but I hate being outside UNDER CANVAS even more, hehe. I can't think of anything worse than being in a tent when it's absolutely pissing it down. So naturally I wanted to put them in the soggiest, gloomiest situation possible, lol.


	91. A Prince Or Princess?

Nobody - save for the queen, nestled on her husband's chest - passed a particularly comfortable night. The storm blew itself southwards in the early hours of the morning, the rain easing off shortly after. When a soft, peachy dawn arrived several hours later, it smiled down upon a thoroughly waterlogged camp. Zevran's tent had fallen down in the middle of the night – hissing, the elf had retreated to sleep nestled amongst the warm flanks of the horses – and several other tents had come perilously close. All of their packs and possessions were soaked; fortunately the map had been sealed in a watertight container. Wynne had managed to save her journal by keeping it tucked close to her bosom.

There was no chance of building a fire, since all the wood in the surrounding area was soaked to the root. Instead, they spread out as much of their belongings as possible over carts and convenient rocks, taking advantage of a welcome sunny interval to dry them out. Modesty had been abandoned in the prospect of cold, wet attire – the men had all stripped down to their smallclothes. Initially, they had been reluctant to disrobe in front of the queen (which naturally the elf had no qualms about); but Flora had reassured them that she was – _had been -_ a healer who was used to seeing men in all states of undress. Moments later, she also peeled off her soggy clothing down to her smallclothes, perching on a low, flat boulder and relying on her loose, heavy mass of hair to cover her breasts.

"Here you go, my love."

Alistair handed Flora a small oiled leather box, which he had just spent the last twenty minutes rummaging through the sodden baggage to retrieve. Flora was unable to stop herself from letting out a squeak of delight as she set eyes on the contents of the container – a half-dozen pickled and dried sardines.

"Ooooh! Thank you!" she breathed in near-ecstasy, devouring one in three whole bites. "Our son is craving oily fish."

Alistair stared at her, suddenly feeling tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. Flora, oblivious, kept inserting pickled sardines into her mouth.

"Mmm! Mmmm!"

"'_Our son'?"_ the king repeated, throatily. "You think it's a boy, my love?"

Flora, focused on her food, gave a little confident grunt.

"Oily fish," she mumbled, swallowing. "Oily fish means a boy."

"It's just a Herring old wives' tale," Wynne warned Alistair from where she was squeezing water from the sleeves of her robes. "Don't put too much stock in superstition."

Flora waited until the senior enchanter had turned her attention back to her wet clothing, then leaned across to whisper in Alistair's ear as he sat beside her.

"It's a boy, I'm _sure_ of it!"

The next moment, she blinked in mild confusion; putting a hand to her stomach.

"Oh, except… now I don't want oily fish anymore. Now I want _pickled onions. _But… but – that doesn't make any sense. Pickled onions is for a _girl!"_

The king inhaled unsteadily, putting an arm around his wife's bare shoulders and pressing his lips to her cheek.

"I'd love a son," he murmured, kissing along the high angle of Flora's jaw. "But I'd also adore a daughter. I don't care what it is. I'm just happier than I could ever hope to put into words."

Wynne finished wringing out her sleeve and eyed the couple, her gaze dropping to the queen's full stomach. Undisguised by tunic or shirt, the creamy swell of Flora's belly rested prominent in her lap.

_Hm, _the senior enchanter thought, one brow rising into her hairline. _I wonder._

They packed up the tents onto the carts and resumed their journey on the Imperial Highway. Lothering still lay a day's ride to the south, and soon they would be leaving the elevated Tevinter roadway to pick up a more humble Fereldan trail. As though wanting to compensate for the recent drizzle and downpours, the sun smiled benevolently upon the travellers; lodged amidst a pallid, duck-egg blue sky that was unblemished by cloud.

Flora – who found herself needing to nap more frequently as both the journeying and the contents of her womb drained her energy – spent much of the morning slumped against Alistair on the saddle. Teagan had suggested that she be transferred into the wagon, but Alistair refused after a few moments of contemplation. Still unnerved by the ghoul attack at South Reach, he wanted to have his wife within arm's reach at all times.

The hills of the bannorn gradually began to flatten themselves out into a low, marshy succession of flood plains; streams and tributaries extending in a spider-web tangle across the swampy land. There were only a few sparse trees scattered at rare intervals; several shallow pools gave off a strange, slightly rotten smell.

"Do you think that stink is the result of the Darkspawn?" Alistair asked, wrinkling his nose as they passed a particularly malodorous puddle. He knew that the Blight-scar lay only a mile or so eastwards, hidden by the lay of the land.

Wynne shook her head, more used to such mineral odours.

"That's sulphur, not the taint," she replied briskly, grimacing as her horse stepped into a pungent bog. "There's a great swathe of sulphurous land in the southern part of the Bannorn. The Circle gets much of its alchemic supplies from around here."

"I don't want to imagine _what _use you'd have for such a foul stench," Alistair replied, wide-eyed. "Let me guess – stink bombs?"

The senior enchanter shot him a stern look, shaking her head.

"Believe it or not, Alistair, but the Circle has better things to do with its time and resources than engage in juvenile pranks!"

"Do you know, I don't mind the smell?"

Both king and mage turned in the saddle to peer at Zevran, who had offered this wistful remark. The elf was gazing ahead, his eyes focused somewhere other than the swampy plains of the bannorn.

"Back in Antiva City, I spent many years living in an alleyway behind a tannery," Zevran continued, his voice soft and pensive. "They used lime to strip the coarse hairs from the freshly-skinned leather. I grew so accustomed to the odour that I did not realise that others considered it foul."

They stopped for lunch on a slightly less marshy patch of ground. The sun had continued to show them good favour, its light dappling across the surface of a more pleasantly-scented pool. The long grasses and ferns clustered at the water's edge also gave off a sharp, herbal scent; Wynne identified the plants as elfroot and spindleweed. Recognising their antiseptic properties, she collected several bundles and stored them in her pack.

While the senior enchanter busied herself with botanical pursuits, the others sat down to share out their lunch rations. Flora had uncanny timing when it came to waking up just before a meal, and was assisting Ser Gilmore with the unwrapping of several hefty slabs of cheese.

"Fereldan cheddar," she said, clutching one yellow wheel to her chest. "And that's Marcher mature rind. What's _that?"_

"This?" Ser Gilmore gazed down at the leather-wrapped portion. "I'm not sure. Let's have a look."

Flora lowered herself down to the sundried grass beside Alistair, while the Cousland knight knelt down and placed the cheese on the embroidered blanket beside the rest of the food.

Ser Gilmore took out a knife and slit open the leather covering, peeling it back to reveal a white, solid cheese flecked with specks of green and red. Flora gazed at it in fascination, her eyebrows shooting up into her hairline.

"What's _that? _Mould?"

The knight shook his head as Alistair leaned forward, inhaling a deep noseful of the cheese's spiced scent.

"No, your majesty. It's white cheddar, with flecks of Antivan pepper. This was a favourite of the teyrn's. He used to import this stuff by the crate."

Flora blinked, her hand pausing mid-reach. As always, whenever Flora's Cousland heritage was mentioned, the others fell quiet; ears pricked with curiosity.

"The teyrn – as in Fergus?" Flora ventured after a moment, her voice a fraction quieter.

Ser Gilmore shook his head once again, cutting several pieces from the block of peppered cheese.

"The old teyrn, my lady. Lord Bryce. Your father."

Flora fell silent, gazing down at the innocuous block of cheese. There was a part of her which – even now – still wanted to retort that her father was a fisherman from the northern coast, for whom cheese was a rare luxury and not a daily staple.

"I don't remember much about the… the old teyrn," she replied after a moment, her voice even smaller. "I was five when he sent me away."

Alistair, who understood well the hurt caused by a parent's rejection, put his non-cheese holding palm on her strapped knee, squeezing it gently.

Ser Gilmore blinked for a moment, not quite sure how to respond. Instead of speaking, he held out a strip of cheese as a peace offering; Flora stretched out a hand and took it.

"It's… strange," she said after a moment, swallowing a mouthful. "But I think I like it."

The knight nodded, and for several minutes they ate in silence; the reeds and long grasses shifting in the breeze.

"What was the old teyrn like?" Flora asked eventually, her voice carefully measured. "I only remember a few things."

Ser Gilmore lowered a hunk of bread to his lap, a faint shadow of reminiscence falling over his scarred face as he recalled his ill-fated liege lord.

"He was hard-working," he said eventually, narrowing his eyes in recollection. "I can't remember a day when he wasn't riding out in the teyrnir, visiting the freeholds or touring the mines. He was well-liked by the people. Some say he ought to have been king instead of Cailan."

Flora pulled a small face, thinking grimly that she would rather be raised in poverty than raised as a _princess. _She already had a vague sense – corroborated by offhand comments from her brothers - that she would have grown up a brat if she had remained at Highever; so she could not imagine the little monstrosity that would have emerged from the royal palace.

_You might be born a prince or a princess, _she thought to her stomach, tapping her fingers against the firm mound of flesh. _But you won't be spoilt. I'll make sure of it._

"Were you at Highever when I was there as a child?" she asked, changing tack. "I don't know if you would have been old enough."

Ser Gilmore nodded, idly breaking the bread into pieces with his fingers.

"I was only a squire at the time," he replied, quietly. "I remember you well enough, my lady. The old teyrn used to take you out with him on his journeys around the teyrnir, perched on the saddle. He called you his little strawberry, on account of your hair."

A faint flicker of memory ignited in the back of Flora's mind and she put a hand to her head as though physically trying to pull the thread of recollection loose.

"I think I remember," she breathed, her brow furrowing. "The old teyrn had a northern accent too, didn't he?"

"Aye, my lady. You and your father pronounce certain words in a like manner."

"He's _not_ my father," Flora retorted back with sudden, instinctive vehemence, her Cousland temper raising its head.

"My lady?" Ser Gilmore's hand rose halfway to his mouth, eyes widening.

"He's _not_ my father," Flora repeated, fiercely. "He didn't want me as a daughter once he realised I had magic. He sent me _away _and never even came to see me."

She pushed herself to her feet, wincing both at the twinge in her knee and the heaviness of her belly. Alistair stretched up a hand but Flora had already stridden out of reach; weaving her way around the sprouting rushes and reeds. There was nowhere for her to go, so she stopped at the edge of the shallow pool and glowered out at the sun-dappled water.

Alistair looked across at Wynne, unsure whether or not to follow her. The senior enchanter shook her head softly, taking a gulp from her water pouch.

"I know how she feels," the king said in an undertone, after a moment. "I felt the same way for my whole childhood. Poor Flo, I didn't realise that she was still so sensitive about it."

"She's going to be a mother in seven weeks," Wynne replied, pushing the cork back into the neck of her water-pouch with her thumb. "It's harder for her to understand how a parent could reject a child."

A dozen yards away, Flora stared down unseeingly at the pale, breeze-rippled surface of the shallow pond. The baby shifted within her stomach and she lowered a hand, feeling the curve of its rump as it pushed against the confines of her belly.

_I would never send you away, little creature, _she thought to herself, fiercely. _Not for anything._

_I feel like a Cousland because of my brothers, not because of Bryce and Eleanor._

A flicker of movement caught Flora's eye from beneath the surface of the pond. She peered down, her attention caught by a long, copper-scaled fish gliding through the shallows. It was unfamiliar to her – she was not as well-versed in freshwater variants – and so she lowered herself awkwardly to her knees, leaning forwards to bring her face close to the water.

"What _are _you?" Flora breathed, ignoring the more prosaic, finger-length silver dartfish swimming near the bank. "I'm going to find out."

Reaching down, she lowered her left hand into the pool, twisting her wrist so that the sunlight reflected off the plump pearl and gleaming gold of her rings. The jewellery glinted in the water, flashing like the scales of a smaller fish.

Beside the wagons, the rest of the party watched in slight perplexion; the remains of their lunch scattered on the grass before them. Their queen was kneeling down on the shore, with her face almost pressed into the mud. Alistair glanced at Zevran, who gave a little shrug of bemusement.

"I have no idea."

Alistair had just scrambled to his feet, determined to check on the welfare of his hormonal wife when Flora let out a squeal of triumph, heaving forth something long, brownish and writhing from the water. It was over a half-yard in length, with a thick and tubular body.

"Ha! Haha. _Got you."_

"_Maker's Breath!"_

A gaping Alistair strode forward to her assistance, reaching Flora just as she had put the fish out of any prolonged misery with a rock.

"Darling, let me take that," he exclaimed, lifting the heavy fish from her arms. "Andraste, what a hideous face its got. What _is _it?"

"I don't know," Flora replied, slightly breathlessly. "But it looks _tasty."_

Privately, Alistair thought that it looked like the least appetising creature on the surface of Thedas. Under Flora's direction, he placed the fish on the grass with a little grimace as he looked into its glassy eye.

Flora, thoroughly distracted from her earlier brooding, borrowed one of Zevran's sharp blades. The elf watched her skin and gut the fish in a matter of minutes, the process swift and instinctual. An idea began to brew in the back of his mind as he took a gulp of ale, eyes narrowed.

"I'm going to pickle this in vinegar," Flora declared, packing salt from their supplies into the fish's gutted interior. "This is _my _kind of meat!"

Alistair smiled at her, relieved that his wife had roused herself from her melancholy.

"Sounds good, baby."

Flora beamed back at him, and then grimaced, dropping a hand to her stomach with a bemused expression.

"Ah!"

He reached for her, eyes widening in alarm. "Darling? Is something wrong?"

Flora shook her head, her brow gradually furrowing itself into ridges as she smoothed a hand around her stomach.

"I think the baby just did the splits," she breathed, bemused. "It just kicked me on both sides _at once. _It must be… flexible!_"_

Alistair peered at her for a moment, then gave a cheerful shrug.

"Perhaps it's an acrobat?"

Back where the others were sitting around the remains of lunch, the senior enchanter cleared her throat to catch Ser Gilmore's attention. The knight was gazing gloomily at the speckled pepper cheese, wondering if the queen was somehow angry with him.

"Ser Gilmore, you ought to bring up the old teyrn and his wife with more frequency," Wynne said softly, catching the retainer's gaze. "Our queen must accept her parentage before we reach Highever."

"But her majesty isn't… comfortable talking about it," the knight protested, lamely. "I don't want to cause her undue stress."

"Florence will be fine," Wynne replied, a fraction more sternly. "She needs to come to terms with it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol. Hint hint! There's been clues pointing to this ever since the first comments about Flo being unusually large for this stage in her pregnancy, haha.


	92. Beware The Bear!

The company continued to ride south, the sun's favour extending into the afternoon. Their route did not take them directly past the Blight-scar, but every so often the landscape was broken into a froth of rotted soil and shattered rocks – suggesting that some part of the horde had emerged from subterranean tunnels for scavenging purposes. Whenever they set eyes on the ruined shell of a farmhouse, or a pile of rubble that had originally been a small cluster of homes; Alistair would inhale unsteadily and his grip on his wife would tighten. His hand would spread over her belly, fingers seeking out the twitch of life from within that served almost as a talisman of hope. The twin lodged closest to the surface of Flora's belly never disappointed it's father, responding vigorously to every tap and prod.

As the sun neared the western horizon, a strange half-light flooded over the plains. One of the scouts predicted confidently that another storm was coming in. There was an acrid electrical discharge in the air that rose the hairs on the back of one's neck, but the storm itself had not yet manifested. The peculiar atmospheric conditions disconcerted the horses, although they were well-trained enough not to let it show beyond a flicker of the ears.

An odd shape on the trail ahead clarified into a covered wagon as the company drew near. One of the wheels was broken, wedged at an awkward angle within a dip in the road. A man clad in patched travel garb was sitting disconsolately at the side of the road, a broken hammer cradled his hands.

"Let us go ahead, your majesty," one of the guards warned, nudging his horse ahead.

The half-dozen guards rode forwards, the sergeant leaning down from the saddle to confer with the man. A moment later, the wagon's owner visibly startled, turning his shocked face towards the royal party before scrambling to his feet.

"King – _King Alistair!?"_

He continued to stare as Alistair rode forwards, eyes set wide and astonished in a wrinkled, leathery face. His stare moved from Alistair to Flora, continuing to widen.

As it turned out, the man was a travelling merchant who had ridden out the Blight by staying constantly on the move. While passing through Redcliffe, he had heard of the Darkspawn's defeat and the death of the Archdemon; and had decided to return to Denerim.

"Until my wagon threw itself into this pothole," the man, who was named Gregory, explained with a doleful expression. "Broke my last wheel."

Alistair, glancing back at their cartload of supplies, instructed that their own equipment be used to repair the merchant's wagon. A disbelieving Gregory stammered in gratitude, offering a tangled and profuse thanks.

As Ser Gilmore and one of the guards set about repairing the broken wheel, the trembling Gregory began to chatter; clearly the sort to express his nerves through an abundance of speech rather than the opposite. Much of it was directed at no one in particular, the man's fingers twitching in his lap.

"I was ridin' through Redcliffe, and the lady Isolde was down in the town lookin' at the broken mill-wheel. She's in charge, y'know, while the arl is in Denerim…"

Standing in the middle of the road, Alistair cast another glance in the direction of his wife. One of the infants had contorted itself against Flora's bladder and she had made a hasty retreat into the bushes; he could see her dark red head amongst the foliage.

"Argh, _nettles!" _he heard her say a moment later, and bit down on a grin.

The next moment, the king's attention was drawn by Zevran, the elf breathing into his ear as he strolled past.

"This traveller is _too _nervous, _amor."_

Alistair, immediately alert, glanced towards Teagan. The bann had overheard Zevran's comment, and had also been harbouring suspicions of his own.

"What goods have you got in your wagon, ser?" Teagan asked, his voice steady and measured.

The man's pupils constricted suddenly, and he went a fraction paler beneath the leathery tan. Teagan shot a brief, confirmatory glance towards Alistair; both men thinking along the lines of _smuggler, looter, bandit…_

"It's – it's my wife," the merchant said, hesitantly. "She's… she's not well."

"Not well in what way?" Teagan enquired sharply, taking a step forward. "Diseased?"

"No," Gregory replied, a distinct tremor running through his words. "She – she accidentally inhaled Blight-miasma. A full lungful. It's done… _strange_ things to her head."

Alistair gritted his teeth, grateful that the repair job on the wheel was almost finished.

"Strange things, like what?" he asked bluntly, with another darting glance towards Flora. She was just starting to make her way back through the bushes towards the road, grumbling quietly to herself.

"She… _sees things. _Has visions. But she's not dangerous, I promise," the merchant hastened to reassure them, stepping up onto the back of the wagon and pulling back the canvas covering. "Martha, it's the King of Ferelden."

A woman, clad in a ragged blue gown, was hunched between the crates stacked within the wagon. Her head hung low, bowed by the weight of her miasma-filled brain, and much of her hair had been wrenched from her reddened scalp. A few greying strands were still caught beneath her own broken nails, identifying her as the architect of her own misfortune.

When she lifted her head to stare at them, her irises were clouded by the taint; the pupils misshapen and smeared across the iris.

"Maker's Breath," said Alistair, astonished. "The poor woman."

"It would be better to put her out of her misery," Zevran murmured, but soft enough that the man could not hear.

"Martha, it's King Alistair," the merchant tried again, hopefully.

His wife stared up at him with blank, unseeing eyes, her gaze focused somewhere in the middle distance. A thin line of saliva ran down her chin, wending its way gradually towards her neck. A constant, unintelligible stream of muttering emerged from between her cracked lips; no separate words discernible.

"We're going to the Circle Tower in a week or so," Alistair offered hopefully, his compassion rising to the fore. "They might have developed some sort of… of _neutralisation_ to the Blight-sickness. I know they've been collecting samples."

Wynne inclined her head in a nod of confirmation. Nobody spoke the collective thought that was on their mind: _the only person who could have cured the sick woman was Flora, whose remarkable abilities were now only a distant memory._

"Has she… displayed any other signs of the taint?" Teagan enquired softly, voicing the next thought in the natural progression. "You know that sometimes people can… _change… _after being afflicted."

The merchant shook his head dolefully, casting his eyes to the dusty track.

"She inhaled the lungful months ago. Ain't no other changes than the… the _visions."_

"I _love _prophecies_," _offered Zevran, sidling closer to eye the Blighted woman. "I knew a fortune teller once back in Rialto who told me that I would die from being mauled by a tiger. I am always _deeply_ careful to avoid jungles."

The elf grinned, showing that he did not put too much stock in such doom-laden portents.

Just then, Alistair felt a gentle nudging on his elbow. He looked down to see Flora at his side; his best friend had wandered across from the bushes to see what they were all gazing at.

Immediately, the king realised that he did _not_ want his expectant wife in the proximity of a Blight-tainted creature; out of both concern for her safety and concern for her general emotional wellbeing. The loss of her magic was still a raw wound for Flora, and seeing somebody suffer - when before she could have assisted so effortlessly - was sure to cause pain.

"Darling, stand with Teagan for a moment," Alistair urged, seeing the same thought writ across the bann's face. The younger Guerrin stepped forwards, offering his arm gallantly to the queen.

"Come with me, poppet."

Flora shot her husband a look which stated plainly that she _knew_ she was being cajoled, and would not fall for it. Planting one booted foot on the wooden backboard, she heaved herself up high enough to see the wagon's contents.

The woman raised her head as Flora appeared at the foot of the wagon, her smeared and hazy pupils suddenly constricting into sharp focus. When she spoke, the words emerged with a clarion clearness from the babble; each one harsh-edged and blunt.

"_Beware the bear!"_

Flora blinked, too distracted by her own sympathy to understand what the woman was referring to. The merchant's wife repeated the same three words of warning over and over, the sounds running together with exponential speed until they emerged as an indecipherable babble.

Beside her, Alistair suddenly inhaled in shock; his eyes widening as though he had been slapped.

"The Howe badge is a bear," he breathed, suddenly. "It's a bear on a mustard field. _Maker's Breath."_

The rest of the company shot quick, darting glances at each other, while Flora looked bemused. Alistair reached up to lift his wife down from the wagon, drawing her close to his chest as though the eldest Howe son might leap out from behind the sparse hedgerow.

"Alistair, I wouldn't put too much stock in the ravings of a mad woman," Zevran said, in an attempt to assuage Alistair's naked fright. "It is probably a coincidence."

Alistair did not loosen his grip, nor did he look particularly reassured.

Once the merchant's cartwheel had been repaired, they set off once more; each one inwardly glad to put some distance between themselves and the taint-maddened woman. Alistair barely spoke a word for the rest of the afternoon's journey; replaying the hoarsely croaked words over and over feverishly in his mind.

_Beware the bear._

_Beware Nathaniel Howe._

He kept his arm wrapped tightly around Flora, reassured by her proximity against her chest. Flora did not know what to make of the sick woman's prophecy – Herring folk did not put much stock in fortune-telling – but she _was _disconcerted by the reference to the bear. She could still recall the grizzly symbol embroidered on the canopy of Howe's bed; where she had spent a night lying in fear that the treacherous arl might come and join her beneath the covers.

_But he didn't, because Loghain kept him occupied for hours under false pretences._

Biting anxiously at her fingernails, Flora leaned back against Alistair's chest. She could feel his heartbeat thudding at rapid pace behind his ribs; far faster than its usual steady, leisurely pulse.

The company made good progress along the trail, despite the lack of paving. As the afternoon light began to wane, they reached the base of a shallow valley, each gently-sloped side covered with pine trees. A long, narrow loch stretched for almost the length of the valley; one of the main water sources for the still-distant Lake Calenhad.

They made camp just as the sun began to sink below the horizon. It had taken them some time to find a suitable spot to pitch the tents, since much of the grassland around the lake's shore was marshy and covered with reeds. Eventually, they managed to find a raised mound of grass marked by the toppled remains of several standing stones.

Alistair had barely spoken a word for the entire afternoon, the madwoman's words still echoing about his skull. He had assisted in the construction of the camp, guided by familiarity rather than conscious effort, but had not responded to any questions. Even the smell of roasting meat and the squeaking of the makeshift spit over the campfire did not distract him from his brooding. Every so often he would stare at his wife: who had once possessed a shield that not even the flaming breath of an old god could penetrate. Now, as the ponytail fell to one side to reveal the pale, slender curve of her neck, the king could only think one thing: _defenceless_.

Flora had assisted as much as she was permitted with the construction of the camp. At over seven months heavy with child, she found herself growing tired far more quickly, her energy stolen by the plump little infants within her stomach. She had helped Wynne to assemble her tent before needing to sit down; suddenly light-headed and overheated. The senior enchanter had helped Flora to change from her woollen tunic and breeches into one of Alistair's long, linen shirts that she customarily slept in.

While waiting for the meat, they ate strips of herby bread and roasted vegetables drizzled with oil; grateful for what was turning out to be a dry and mild evening. The storm that had been brewing earlier had clearly blown itself out, much to everyone's relief. Teagan and Ser Gilmore conversed quietly about tomorrow's route, while Zevran sharpened his blade between bites.

"We know that the eldest Howe son is in Ferelden," Alistair said suddenly, lowering a forkful of salted beef. "He was spotted at the port in Amaranthine several weeks ago. Eamon has spies in Delilah Howe's household; he'd find out if they tried to plot together. I don't know who else within Ferelden would help Howe with anything _untoward _against Flo. Who would want to _hurt _her?"

"Alistair, there's nothing you can do about it save for staying vigilant and trusting in us to keep her safe," Wynne said, sternly. "You'll drive yourself as mad as that poor merchant's wife if you carry on thinking like this."

Flora swallowed a mouthful of roasted tomato before putting aside her plate. Shuffling her rear across the damp grass, she heaved herself into Alistair's lap, winding her arms around his neck.

"Well, I'm not afraid," she breathed in his ear, the words shaped by her soft, slightly hoarse northern tones. "I know I'm safe when I'm with you."

The king twisted his head to kiss her ear, reaching down to grip her small ankle and massaging the sore, swollen flesh between finger and thumb. Flora closed her eyes, letting her head settle on his shoulder as the ache in her foot gradually began to drain away. By the time that he had begun to rub her toes, she had fallen asleep against his chest.

The rest of the company were quiet for several minutes; Teagan shooting surreptitious glances through the flames to where the dozing Flora was slumped in Alistair's lap. No king of Ferelden had ever been shy about showing affection to their wives in public, and Maric's younger son was no different. He cradled his snoring wife as she straddled his thighs, pressing the occasional kiss to her neck and shoulder.

"When will we reach Lothering tomorrow?"

"Late afternoon," replied Teagan, after a cursory glance at the map lying to one side. "If we make good time tomorrow. I'm not sure what condition the road is in, we might not get there until nightfall."

"If it's dark, we'll wait until the morning to enter the town," Alistair decided, reaching down to Flora's other foot and massaging the aching flesh with strong fingers. "And I want the place scouted beforehand. I won't have Flo going anywhere that hasn't been checked."

"I'll cast an eye around," offered Zevran measuredly, tucking his whetstone away. "I recognise the signs of the Darkspawn well enough."

Alistair nodded his thanks, massaging his wife's stiff toes between finger and thumb.

”Thanks, Zev. I just - I _need_ her to be safe.”

”As do we all, _mi rey.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Note: OOooh so the jig is up! Flora is pregnant with twins, which isn't too much of a surprise considering that she was overflowing with creation energy when they were conceived; it was probably an egg-palooza party in there, lol. Of course, nobody realises yet – they've been under the impression that it's a large baby, haha.
> 
> And it's time to pick up the Howe subplot again! We've got rid of sneaky Thomas, but Nathaniel Howe is still somewhere out there.
> 
> I made up the Blight-madness thing, but I think it's quite logical – I bet taking a big gulpful of tainted air doesn't do good things to your psyche!


	93. The Sowing Of Wild Oats

To distract Alistair from thoughts of Howe, the company spoke of other things for the next hour around the campfire. Wynne told him of the letters from Duncan kept safe at the Circle Tower, at which the king brightened in curiosity. Teagan told several amusing stories from his travels through the Marches as a youth; when he and several other young lords had been determined to taste each local ale in the region. They had barely waited to sober up before moving on to the next tavern, which ultimately ended up in them trying to climb a statue of Andraste in Ostwick. They had been arrested by a city guard, too incoherent to explain who they were; and spent the night in an underground cell with a dwarven male prostitute even drunker then themselves.

"We deserved it," Teagan admitted with a laugh, amused at Alistair's wide-eyed surprise. "We were little hellions. This was before I knew of Eamon's plans to make me a bann back in Ferelden."

"I've heard a fair few stories about you in your younger days," Wynne chimed in, wryly. "If even half of them are part-true, you've had quite the youth."

Teagan laughed, choosing to take a long draw of whiskey instead of elaborating. Zevran gazed at him with new interest, dark eyes sparkling. The sun had now fully immersed itself beneath the horizon; the inky veil of twilight settling gently across the valley like a muffling blanket.

"I should like to hear some of these stories, Bann Guerrin," the elf murmured, tapping his fork rhythmically against his tin plate. "We could compare escapades. Alistair, do you ever wish that _you_ had had a carefree youth? An opportunity to sow your wild oats? You are but one-and-twenty, and you are married, and will be a father by Satinalia."

Alistair blinked for a moment and Zevran gave a small laugh, leaning back on his elbows in the sundried grass.

"My sweet boy, you do not know what _'sow your wild oats' _means, do you?"

The king shook his head, cupping his snoring wife's neck with his hand and rubbing his thumb in slow circles across her skin.

"No idea, Zev."

"It means to entertain the company of women," Zevran explained, helpfully. "In a carefree and non-committal manner."

The corner of Alistair's mouth turned upwards wryly, and he pressed a kiss to the top of Flora's head as she huddled in his lap.

"_This_ one has spoilt me on desiring any other woman," he said, quietly so not to wake her. "I still remember the first time I ever set eyes on her in the Circle Tower. A maleficar was casting blood magic all over the place, a Tranquil was bleeding to death on the tiles; and all I could look at was this – this _gorgeous_ girl who had just fallen through the doorway with a sandwich in her hand. She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, even with crumbs around her mouth and a confused look on her face. I still can't believe that Flo's my _wife _now_. _And that she's carrying our child. I'm the luckiest man in Thedas."

As though on cue, Flora woke up with a start, looking around in mild perplexion.

"I think I snore louder now that I don't dream," she said out loud, yawning mid-sentence. "Do I snore violently? Do I snort like a _pig_ in my sleep? Be honest."

Alistair smiled at her, the green flecks in his eyes standing out bright with adoration. Tilting her chin, Flora gazed back at him; reaching up to rest her palm flat against his stubble-covered cheek.

Knowing that they would be staring transfixed at each other for the next few minutes, Teagan cleared his throat and struck up a conversation with Ser Gilmore about various types of horse-shoe.

The full moon was soon wreathed by stars, casting a surprising amount of silvery light over the shallow valley. The campsite remained relatively well-lit despite the surrounding velvety darkness, the fire burning heartily away within the ragged circle of tents. Wynne retired to her bedroll early, as did both scouts and a yawning guard. Eventually, only Zevran, Flora, Alistair and Teagan remained sitting around the crackling pile of logs. Zevran never went early to bed; Flora was energised from her nap; Alistair wanted to put off the moment when the inevitable nightmares of Howe would begin; Teagan stayed awake to keep a watchful eye on their surroundings.

"_Mi sirenita."_

Flora peered across at the elf, her pale eyes granted borrowed warmth from the flames. Zevran was holding one of his favourite blades, a slender knife with a curving edge. As she watched, he tilted the blade back and forth so that the metal caught the firelight.

"This knife and I have a long history," he murmured, eyes caught in a tangled net of memories. "It has been with me for over a decade. In shape and length, it is not dissimilar to the blades used by tanners to strip the meat away from the flesh."

"You grew up near a tannery," Flora remembered, gazing at him. "Back in Antiva City."

Zevran nodded, running his fingers across the strips of leather wound around the knife's hilt. _"Sí. _Even as a child, I was familiar with this type of blade."

There followed silence for several moments, during which the only sound came from the crackling heart of the flames. Alistair took a gulp of ale, correcting the now-empty flagon as it tipped sideways on the grass.

"You _must_ learn how to defend yourself, _mi florita," _the elf continued, a raw note of pleading in his tone. "Even Leonas Bryland's spoiled brat of a daughter knows how to use a bow and arrow."

When Flora opened her mouth to protest, Zevran used the counter-argument that he had prepared to contravene her defence.

"Think of the babe, then," he murmured, softly. "Imagine if someone managed to get into the royal nursery. If a guard was bribed. Somebody turned traitor. Wouldn't you wish to be able to defend your child?"

The Antivan felt a faint twinge of guilt as Flora turned huge, alarmed eyes on him; yet he was determined to press on. Alistair also winced at the elf's bluntness, yet this entire conversation had been pre-planned between them.

"I believe that the _reason _why you have not excelled yourself at any training with weapons in the past is because you are not familiar with the _types_ of weapon offered to you," Zevran continued. "I firmly believe that the reason why this curved blade works so well for me is because I spent so many hours of my childhood watching the men at work in the tannery. How did you feel when Isabela, Leliana placed their daggers into your hand, _nena?"_

"Odd," replied Flora, after giving it a moment's thought. "Unnatural."

Zevran nodded, angling his gaze upwards towards the star-crowned moon for several long seconds. Then he reached into the leather pack at his side and drew out something that Flora recognised in a single heartbeat. He held it out to her and she let out a soft breath of familiarity, wrapping her fingers around the hilt. It was a slender, angular blade no more than three inches in length; honed to a razor sharpness.

"But this is a descaling knife," she said out loud moments later, turning the tool over with an expert hand. "For scraping the scales off fish."

"It is a _blade_," Zevran replied, softly. "And an exceedingly sharp one. Do you feel comfortable with it in your hand, _nena?"_

"Of course," she retorted, slightly indignant. "I used one of these for ten years. Where did you get it?"

"When we were at South Reach. But – anyway. If you are familiar with how the blade feels, comfortable with the weight of it in your hand… that is half the battle. Here, _carina. _Let me show you the second thing I have got for you."

Flora dutifully handed the elf back the descaling blade, her eyes now wide and curious. Zevran smiled at her, rummaging in his pack once more before drawing out an object that made the queen squeak in recognition.

"Oh!"

"Maker's Breath," commented Alistair, his eyebrows rising into his gilded hairline. "What a vicious looking thing."

"It's for catching marlin," Flora said, taking the fishhook by the neck and eyeing the palm-sized curved iron point with incongruous fondness. "They're the biggest fish in the Waking Sea. My dad was the best in Herring at catching them. Why's this got a wooden thing on it?"

"It's a _handle, mi sirenita," _replied Zevran, watching her closely. "A fisherman's tool can double quite efficiently as a weapon, it seems."

Flora blinked, turning the large, cruelly barbed hook over in her palm with the ease of familiarity.

"I suppose," she breathed, running her finger along the back of the curved metal. "I never thought of them in that way before."

Zevran smiled at her, slightly ruefully. Reaching forwards, he took the fishhook from her; tucking it back into the safety of his leather pack.

"I would prefer that it were not necessary, as I'm sure your beloved _brother-warden _would agree," he murmured, fastening the buckle with deft fingers. "There is one final thing that I have not been able to procure yet – a quarter-staff, of the same length and weight as your Circle staff."

Flora gazed at him, her dark red eyebrows raised.

"A staff?"

"_Sí, mi reina. _You wielded that garden hoe with such ferocity against the ghouls in South Reach castle, I was _inspired. _Although I think I will wait until you are lighter on your feet to train you with the staff."

They were silent for several moments, sat in the grass beneath the vast and star-flecked darkness; bathed in the light of a benevolent, opalescent moon. The narrow stream wended at their side, gleaming like a trickle of spilled lantern oil. Around them, gentle snores and sighs emerged from the ragged circle of tents; the campfire beginning to gutter as it ran low on fuel. The royal Mabari were sprawled in the residual warmth of the flames, yawning and wagging their tails in idle contentment. Despite their apparent lethargy, if any traveller or malign beast appeared within fifty yards of the camp, the dogs would set up a barking loud enough to rouse the citizens of distant Denerim. The Theirin-loyal hounds were intelligent enough to realise that the petite human female was carrying the next heir of the bloodline, and had been trained to go for the throat of anything that threatened her.

Alistair had let his saddle-sore body slump backwards until his head and shoulders were resting in Flora's crossed legs, nestled against the swell of her stomach. She was stroking the sides of his face affectionately, feeling the two days' worth of stubble that had sprouted along his chin. The king had decided to shave only once they had reached the Circle Tower; when a formal appearance would be required.

Zevran bade them both goodnight, rising elegantly to his feet and sauntering around the waning flames towards his tent. Flora stretched out a hand as the elf passed, scrabbling her bitten fingernails insistently against his leather-clad knee. He bent down and she reached her arm around his neck, pressing her lips just east of his mouth.

"Thank you," she breathed, earnestly. "I think I'll learn a lot from you."

The former Crow almost made a salacious comment, then bit it back; smiling at her with a faint edge of wistfulness.

"I will teach you well, _nena. _Goodnight to you and your handsome prince, _hm?"_

As the canvas entrance flap dropped shut behind their companion, Flora returned her attention to Alistair; stroking her thumbs in parallel down the sides of his handsome, angular jaw. His eyes were closed and she wondered if he were asleep. Long strands of sun-dried grass were brushing against his neck, yet he made no responding twitch or movement. A gentle snore emerged from his part-open mouth a moment later, his golden eyelashes resting flush against his cheeks.

Flora let her gaze return upwards, trying to recall the name of the constellation that hung over the southern bannorn. Although she and Alistair had spent much time in the region the previous year, their eyes had been so firmly fixed on the road – and their minds on the mammoth task ahead of them – that they had barely spared a glance for the heavens above.

Just then, the surface of Flora's stomach rippled as a little foot gave a hard kick. Alistair let out a grunt, roused by both the movement against his head and his wife's sudden wince. Yawning, he used one strong arm to propel himself upright, twisting his head to peer at her.

"Alright, my love?"

"Mm," she replied, patting the rounded curve of her belly. "Fine. I keep getting kicked on _both _sides, I don't know how it's physically possible."

Alistair bowed his neck to press his lips against Flora's linen-covered stomach, trying not to look proud of his child's vigorous strength.

"Be _gentle _with your mother," he chided, sternly. "She's the most precious thing in the whole of Thedas."

Flora went a shade pinker, still exceptionally susceptible to her husband's compliments. Returning to a sitting position Alistair smiled at her; backlit by the guttering flames of the campfire. Neither light nor movement came from the tents gathered around them, though loud snoring filtered through a fair number of canvas doorways.

The king patted his lap and his queen obediently shuffled forwards. With some assistance from his strong hands, Flora was soon straddling his lap with her arms reaching around his neck. Alistair embraced his wife readily, drawing her close against his chest. For several minutes they held onto each other tightly; just like they had done during the darkest months of the Blight.

The moon gazed down benevolently from its star-wreathed seat, casting a silvery light over the shallow valley. The narrow stream at the valley's bottom was illuminated like a fine rivulet of molten metal. The occasional brave hare darted alongside the water; zig-zagging through the long, dried grasses with a soft whisper.

Bathed in the gossamer-fine lunar light, Ferelden's young king helped his best friend out of her smallclothes, one leg at a time. A pink-cheeked Flora shifted from side to side on his lap, letting him peel off her linen smalls and discard them on the grass. Even as Alistair inched her knickers down over her thighs, she was fumbling impatiently at the buttons of his breeches. When - _finally_ \- they were joined together as one, both let out a soft, mutual sigh of contentment. Flora smiled shyly up at him and Alistair gazed back down at her, his eyes bruised soft and raw with desire. There was a wordless question in his stare and she acquiesced in similar manner; lifting her arms so that her husband could remove her last remaining item of clothing.

Once she was naked in his lap, Alistair took a moment to admire the firelight playing over her full, creamy breasts; wishing that they were in a more private location where he could take his time. Telling himself that the tent entrance flap belonging to the elf was just twitching in the night breeze, Alistair gripped his wife's hips with strong hands, gently beginning to move her up and down the length of his shaft.

"Do you like how it feels, my love?" he murmured in her ear, and Flora let out a helpless moan of assent, muffling the sound as best she could against his shoulder.

At such an unsubtle sign of pleasure Alistair grinned, feeling a sudden surge of pride. With exceptional care, he resumed the gentle, rhythmic motion; the muscles in his arms working as he rocked his lover in his lap.

One of the scouts, returning from a wide, looping patrol of the area, caught sight of the two figures moving with increasing urgency in the long grass near the campfire. The Mabari pricked their ears at the man's approach, but the royal couple were far too preoccupied with each other to notice anything in the vicinity. The scout hastily decided to patrol the loop once more; hoping that this would give the newlyweds time to satiate themselves.

Sure enough, by the time that the scout returned, the royal couple had retired to the relative privacy of their tent, and were conversing in muffled tones. The king's voice – clear and finely articulated, with a south-western inflection – contrasted with the soft, throaty tones of a northern commoner that emerged from his queen.

Their exchange carried on for several minutes and then the king ducked out from beneath the canvas flap, peering around to locate the clothing that Flora had discarded so enthusiastically earlier. The carefully straight-faced scout helped him to locate both the missing shirt and a pair of linen smallclothes. Alistair, trying not to laugh, had some difficulty maintaining a neutral expression as he gravely reclaimed his wife's joyfully abandoned garments.

Back within the tent, Flora wriggled into the shirt, squirming on the tangle of embroidered blankets and furs. Alistair leaned back on the thick rugs and reached out an arm; against which she nestled herself and pulled the blankets up over her shoulders.

"You know tomorrow, darling, when we reach Lothering?"

"Mm."

"I'm going to have it thoroughly scouted before you even set_ foot_ in the place, Lo. Teagan, the Cousland knight, and several of the guards are going to check every building. I swear, my love, what happened at South Reach will _never _happen again."

Flora twisted her head against Alistair's chest, her eyes silvered by a shaft of moonlight filtering through the gap in the canvas.

"You're not going to scout, are you?"

He shook his head, tightening his grip on her shoulders. "I'm not leaving your side from the moment we set eyes on the damned place."

She stared up at him wordlessly for several long moments; the bell from that distant Chantry echoing in her skull in a funeral peal.

_I remember when I glimpsed Lothering burning in my dreams, during our first stay at Redcliffe Castle. I felt the Archdemon's pleasure at the town's destruction._

Alistair's thumb traced the line of her jaw, and Flora realised that he was recalling the same night.

_I summoned my shield in a panic when I woke and you put your hand against it; determined to fish-rope me through my bad dreams. You took me up to the balcony high over Lake Calenhad, and it was so cold we could see our breath hanging in the air._

Her best friend leaned forward and pressed his lips against each of her ears in turn, the kisses light and tender.

_No more hearing it._

She closed her eyes as he repeated the gesture, lips brushing gently against her lashes.

_No more seeing it._

Finally, Alistair leaned forward and kissed her forehead with infinite affection; lingering with his mouth touched to her skin.

_Gone from your head._

Flora reached out for him, simultaneously pulling up the blanket over their heads to cocoon them both within its warmth.

"You are the _love of my life_," she informed him solemnly beneath the embroidered wool. "I'd fish up the great golden whale of Elibrar if you wanted it."

Alistair smiled at her, reaching out to touch her cheek with a gentle, callused thumb.

"I want your health and happiness, my darling," he replied, softly. "More than anything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Ooooh! This was a cute chapter to write. I wanted to have some nice affectionate scenes to counteract the grimness of the upcoming escapade in Lothering. Lothering was a recurring theme in the original story – Flora kept hearing the bells ringing desperately for aid within her skull; she heard them ringing in the distance when she slew the Archdemon. For her, Lothering came to represent all of the destruction wreaked by the Blight.
> 
> Also, Teagan was DEFINITELY a lad when he was younger, I can just see it!


	94. Return To Lothering

There was little conversation as the company broke their fast the next morning; the camp was packed up swiftly and silently. Lothering, despite being a relatively small settlement, had once been known as the _crossroads of Ferelden _due to its central location. Everybody had passed through the prosaic little town at some point in their lives, usually on their way to some other more vibrant and interesting destination. Teagan had once stayed at the inn there _en route_ to a horse fair in South Reach; Wynne had also rested within the small town on an official Circle journey to Denerim. Ser Gilmore had an aunt and uncle from Lothering; as was the case with so many families scattered by the Blight, he had no idea if they had survived or not. One of the guards once had a lover who hailed from a farmstead to the town's north. Zevran had never been to Lothering, but felt as though he knew it from the sheer amount of times that it had been mentioned during the Blight.

Lothering bore mixed sentiment for both Alistair and Flora. On the one hand, they had met two of their companions within the small, nondescript town, and Leliana especially had become invaluable to their cause over the past year. For Alistair, Lothering held a special significance; it being the first place that he had held his sister-warden in his arms. They had first embraced spontaneously within the town Chantry during the day, and later that evening he had put an impulsive arm around Flora's narrow shoulders and drawn her to his side as she snored. They had awoken the next morning in an intimate tangle of tightly-wound limbs, subconsciously having sought warmth and comfort from each other in sleep. A month before they had even shared a kiss, a precedent of sleeping curled up together had been set.

On the other, the desperate faces of refugees gathered in their dozens on the south side of the town rose equally prominent in their recollections. Terrified, homeless and penniless; they had gathered in sad little clumps on the muddy grass beyond the bridge, barred from the Chantry and the inns unless they had sufficient coin for donation or bribe. There had been soldiers from Ostagar there too, many of them suffering with Blighted wounds. The Wardens had departed Lothering after a night spent crowded into a servant's room, with two new companions in tow and a sinking feeling that they had not been able to convince enough of the townsfolk to escape. Flora had spent three hours healing the refugees and wounded soldiers the previous evening; she had pleaded with everyone she had come into contact with to _flee. _Most had not listened to her – a _mage – _and were determined to wait for official instruction from the Templars or the Chantry.

The bells of Lothering pealing in a desperate, hopeless cry for aid had once been a recurrent theme in Flora's dreams - when she'd still been able to have them. They had echoed in the crevasses of her skull during pivotal moments in their campaign; when the Landsmeet had voted in the Wardens' favour, when the armies had unveiled themselves on the Alamarri plains. They had rung loudest of all when she had raised the blade to slay the Archdemon and end the Blight.

Nobody had any idea what condition Lothering would have been left in by the horde. Inwardly, the majority of the party had prepared themselves for the worst. They envisioned the town as little more than a smoking crater, burnt out and ravaged, perhaps with a few lone Darkspawn roaming the skeletal remnants of dwellings. Naturally, in this macabre vision, the fields were poisoned beyond redemption; the soil churned into a fetid mass of Blight-tainted froth.

They rode for two hours in near-silence, the horses following each other on a narrow path that wound gradually upwards and out of the shallow valley. Even the Mabari were relatively quiet, picking up on the sombre mood of the company. Ser Gilmore and Teagan exchanged brief conversation about the upcoming scouting of Lothering; murmuring the logistics in soft undertones.

Flora, who had been leaning back against Alistair's chest, was comforted by the strong, steady throb of his heartbeat between her shoulder-blades. She let her gaze drop to her husband's hands, which were set on the reins and the curve of her stomach respectively. Reaching down, she placed her palm over the hand resting atop her belly, wondering at the contrast between his large, callused fingers and her own slender, nail-bitten ones. Despite his royal blood and kingly title, Alistair had the strong hands of a labourer; worn and capable.

Flora gazed down at the back of her own smaller hand, the pale skin emblazoned with the milk-white scar left by the Archdemon's soul as it frantically tried to seek purchase in her body. The marks were replicated on her palm, as though the dragon's spirit had passed clean through the flesh and bone.

_It's strange to have marks on my body that I can't heal, _she thought to herself wistfully, recalling the similar scars left on her thigh, her hip and her shoulder-blades. _I used to smooth over any blemish without thinking twice._

Alistair followed her gaze, and turned his hand over to clasp her palm. Twining their fingers together, he brought their conjoined hands to his mouth; lips pressing rhythmically against the pale, arcing mark.

"My – beautiful – wife," he murmured between kisses. "How are you feeling, my love?"

"Eh?"

"About – you know. Where we're going."

Flora gave a very Herring-_esque _shrug and a grunt, feeling spidery veins of tension creeping through her body.

"Lothering," she said after a moment, softly. "I don't know how I feel yet. How do _you _feel?"

The king gave a similar response, grimacing.

"I don't know, either," he replied with a rueful shrug. "I just wish we'd had some information about what to expect, you know? So we could prepare ourselves. So it's not such a… such a _surprise."_

Flora nodded in complete agreement; surprises were _not _something that she generally appreciated. Alistair pressed his lips once more to her fingers, then lowered their conjoined hands, returning his arm to its protective position across her waist.

"Before we left Denerim, Arl Leonas told me about Lothering's restoration committee," she said, letting her head rest against his shoulder. "He went to their meeting. He said that their village elder, Miriam, seems determined to restore the town, or to rebuild it on the nearest patch of untainted land."

"Mm," Alistair replied, his attention caught by a kite circling over the fields to the side. "_'New Lothering'. _I don't know which would be better – to rebuild a new town from the ashes of the old, or to start afresh several miles away."

Flora bit her lip, trying to imagine which option she would prefer if it had been _Herring_ ravaged by the Darkspawn horde. This was such a traumatic prospect that she found herself flinching, envisioning her beloved hometown in smouldering ruins.

"I think it might be better to start anew somewhere else," she said, after a few moments. "Less bad memories. Less _ghosts. _Oh, do you think there might be _ghosts _there?!"

No _tangible_ enemy had frightened Flora when she had possessed her inviolable shield, but she had always maintained a fear of any foe capable of slipping through the summoned barrier. Rather ironically for one so comfortable with spirits, she had been terrified of the ghosts that wandered the snow-covered halls of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Her only qualm about returning to the desolate fortress of Ostagar had been the prospect of running into the ethereal remnants of the soldiers that had once resided there.

"There won't be ghosts," Alistair hastened to reassure her, impressed at the certainty in his own tone. "Anyway, I'll ask Teagan to check for them when he's scouting the place. He's got a special affinity for it."

"A special affinity for what?" Teagan called over his shoulder, ears pricking at the mention of his name.

"Ghost spotting," Alistair replied, eyebrows contorting pointedly in his uncle's direction. "Flo is scared of them."

"Not _scared! _Justifiably cautious!"

Teagan almost laughed out loud, and then caught sight of Flora's wide grey eyes, set huge and appalled in her delicate face.

"Oh, aye," he assured her, with equal gravity. "I can detect ghosts from a mile off. Don't you worry about that, poppet."

By midday, they had once again re-joined the elevated white-stone road of the Imperial Highway. The ancient construction was in poorer condition in the west of the country than it was to the north, but it was still intact enough to allow the company to follow it south towards Lothering. The only downside was that now they were raised high enough to see where the Blight-scar carved through the land; a fetid trail a half-mile wide that cut through the fields and woods like a poisoned blade.

"Do you know much about the history of Lothering?" Wynne said eventually mid-afternoon, breaking several hours of silence.

Her companions, riding close by the old mage's side, looked towards her.

"I know it's in an important strategic location," Alistair offered, eventually. "Since it's so central. And it's a trade thoroughfare, Eamon used to get a lot of deliveries to Redcliffe from Lothering."

Wynne nodded, gripping the horse's reins as it stepped around a chunk of limestone broken from an overhead arch.

"There was once a great battle near Lothering, during the second Orlesian invasion of the Blessed Age. King Vanedrin Theirin was killed there, after Teyrn Ardal Cousland was slain in an attempt to defend him."

Flora lifted her head from Alistair's shoulder, her attention snared.

"Oh!" she breathed, still finding it difficult to reconcile her own connection to the rich tapestry of Fereldan lore.

"Vanedrin would have been Maric's great-grandfather," the king said slowly, working out the genealogy in his head.

"Aye, and your great-great-grandfather," Teagan confirmed, nudging his own horse a fraction closer. "Apparently, after they were slain, the Orlesians cut off their heads and took them back to Val Royeaux pickled in vinegar. They were on display for quite a few years. Their bodies were paraded naked on horseback and then thrown into unmarked graves."

Both Alistair and Flora looked similarly outraged. Zevran had to hide a smirk with long, tanned fingers; amused by their indignation at events that had transpired over a century earlier.

"How dare they!" breathed Flora, sitting up straight in the saddle. "That's very _disrespectful. _Poor great-great granddad.”

"If we ever go on a diplomatic visit to Val Royeaux, I'm going to find the heads and steal them back," added Alistair, his brow furrowed. "The bloody cheek of it! Typical _Orlesians._"

Both Theirin and Cousland progeny fell into a brooding silence, huddled together in mutual affront.

It was another half-hour before Flora piped up again, her attention caught by one of Alistair's comments. Assuming that Teagan was in the best position to give an informed response, she directed her question to him.

"Do you think we'll go on an official visit to Val- Vally- _Val-reurgh_, then?"

Zevran snickered at _Val-reurgh, _while Alistair glanced up curiously.

"Aye, lass. The Empress of Orlais has already extended a formal invitation," replied Teagan, stifling a laugh at Alistair's grimace. "We won't be accepting it right away. I think that Eamon will suggest that you wait until after the babe is born, nursed and weaned. It's a valid excuse for delay, and then it won't seem as though Ferelden is leaping to respond to an Orlesian summons."

"How long does it take to wean a baby?" Alistair asked, possessing no experience in the field. Flora had little knowledge herself, and gave an ambiguous shrug.

"Dunno."

"Some babes lose interest in the breast after six months or so," Wynne offered, from her mysteriously enlightened viewpoint. "But most take about a year."

"Good," Alistair said, fervently. "The baby will be a year old next autumn. We can put off the visit until the spring, when the weather is better for travel. Keep our child as interested in your breast as long as possible, darling!"

"I'll try," replied Flora solemnly, eyeing her own swollen cleavage.

It was the sharp-eyed scout that first spotted the jagged silhouette of a windmill against the pallid sky. Even the sun seemed wan and bleached-out in this tainted corner of Ferelden; the light hanging insipid amidst stagnant air.

"_There!"_

The scout lifted his arm and pointed a finger towards the first sign of what had once been civilisation. One of the windmill's great sails had broken, leaving only a skeletal fin in its wake. The town of Lothering lay hidden by the curvature of the land; nestled within a dip in the hills beyond.

"Hold."

Alistair's voice rung out in a tone of command that came far easier now than it had done three months earlier. The company obediently drew to a halt, horses gathering in a cluster on the road as the riders listened for their leader's instructions.

"I'm not bringing the queen any nearer until we know that it's safe," he said flatly, eyes moving between the guards and the scouts. "And I'm not leaving her side until Lothering is a day's ride behind us. Ser Gilmore, will you lead the _recce _party?"

The Cousland knight nodded, he had been planning on it. The scouts and the guards would accompany him into the abandoned town, alongside Bann Teagan. Zevran also volunteered to join the party; he was the fleetest of foot and could hear a blade of grass twist in the wind from a dozen yards away.

Those who would remain behind situated themselves beside the ruins of an old barn on the side of the road. The horses were turned out into a nearby clover-filled meadow to graze; a stream provided a source of untainted water. The scouting party would advance into the town on foot, since it rested only a half-mile away. In case there _were _still enemies located within Lothering, they would not risk leaving their horses tied up and vulnerable.

Perched on an upended barrel, Flora watched the men retrieving their weapons from their packs, checking the sharpness of daggers and strapping on leather breastplates. Zevran, who was never parted from his own blades, had no need to prepare since he prided himself on maintaining a state of _constant readiness._

Pushing herself off the barrel, Flora swallowed the nervousness in her throat and wandered over to the elf.

"Are your daggers sharpened?" she asked, anxiously. "And you've got the plate on, haven't you?"

Zevran pulled up the leather tunic to reveal taut abdominal muscles, and then the foil-thin sheet of silverite designed to deflect a fatal blow.

"_Sí, mi sirenita," _he replied, amused at her fussing. "I am _exquisitely_ prepared, as always."

Flora nodded, biting at her lip as she searched his face in an attempt to gain reassurance.

"Be careful," she instructed eventually, hoping that her voice sounded relatively steady. "Look out for ghosts. If you see a decapitated one, it might be my great-great-grandfather. Or Alistair's. They both got executed in Lothering."

Zevran gave a nod of equal solemnity, his rich, liquidous dark eyes boring into hers.

"If I _do _see them, I will be sure to greet them with the proper respect," he replied, a wry flicker of amusement embedded within the words. "And I appreciate the _heads-up, _my Rialto lily."

As usual, the pun eluded Flora entirely. She gave a grave nod and then went impulsively to embrace him; pressing her lips against his tattooed cheek.

"Just be _careful_," she repeated, feeling another sudden twinge of anxiety. "Promise?"

"_Lo prometo, nena."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OC Author Note: I wanted to impress some of the significance of Lothering within this chapter. It was a bit of a recurring theme in the original story – for Flora, its ruination came to represent all the destruction and death caused by the Blight. She heard the 'bells of poor, lost Lothering' at all sorts of significant moments; a haunting echo that kept her fixed on her duty. So returning to it is going to be pretty momentous.
> 
> I think 'recce' is a British term – it's short for reconnaissance, so basically a scouting party!
> 
> thank you!


	95. The Bells Of Lothering

While Teagan, Zevran, the scouts and a handful of the guards went to investigate the remains of the town, Alistair, Flora and Wynne sat down on a low stone wall overlooking a narrow stream. Weeds had crept into the slender watercourse, tangling with the flow and snarling up various twigs and branches. Alistair, in an effort to distract himself, was dropping stems of grass into the water and watching them drift beneath the distant bridge.

Flora was sitting beside her husband, absentmindedly tracing the letters of the alphabet on the top of his thigh. She was reasonably certain that half of them had emerged upside-down or back-to-front, but she was determined to continue regardless. She was still self-conscious about her emotional upset in the kitchen at the South Reach farmhouse several days prior; where she had dissolved into tears of despair simply because Finian's hand had crafted words too complex for her to understand. Even then, once Alistair had calmed her and let his long finger rest along the lines of letters, the words had miraculously become more comprehensible.

Wynne was listening to the birdsong, tilting her head to one side in an effort to identify its source. Despite her venerable years, she had spent so many of them indoors that the calls of different birds were still hard to distinguish.

"Alistair, do you think that's a chaffinch or a ptarmigan?" she said suddenly, canting her head towards a chirping cry emerging from a bush.

Alistair, who had never been taught any bird calls, gave a cheerful shrug.

"No idea," he admitted, cheerfully. "Flo, do you know the differences between them?"

Flora, who could identify any northern sea-bird based on its ululating cry, was far less familiar with their inland cousins. She shook her head, giving up on recalling the last tricky letter of the alphabet.

"I don't know, either."

Alistair reached out a finger and slowly traced the strokes of the final letter on her thigh; having realised what she was attempting to do. He repeated it several times, making sure that she had studied it well before removing his hand.

Thus assisted, Flora finished her tracing of the alphabet on his thigh and beamed at him, bright-eyed. He returned a warm, intimate smile; one that was slow and knowing. She reached up to nestle his bristled cheek against her palm, her thumb sliding over the ascetic angle of his prominent jawbone.

"Don't disappear off into the bushes together," Wynne warned, sensing the air heighten between the king and his new bride. "There's other ways to keep yourselves distracted from Lothering."

The name of the doomed town served well enough to stifle the sexual tension. Flora dropped her hand and hunched her shoulders, the corners of her mouth dropping.

_What if it's like a graveyard down there? Just… bones everywhere._

_No, the Darkspawn would have taken the dead for meat. They'd have cleaned the place out._

_We should have tried harder to persuade the refugees to leave._

With a burst of bitter frustration, Flora kicked her heels hard against the stone. One of her boots dropped neatly to the rocky bank of the stream below; she had loosened the lacing when they had perched themselves on the wall. Alistair, seeing his wife's eyes widen in alarm – she had been wearing these particular boots since she had first left the Circle tower – let himself drop down into the stream with a splash. The water was only several inches deep, and he was easily able to retrieve her boot from where it had landed between two rocks.

Turning towards Flora's dangling legs, the king reached out for her bare foot; clasping his palm against the pink sole. She smiled shyly down at him, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear as he pressed his lips tenderly against her toes.

"I love you," Alistair mouthed up at her, and Flora's smile widened into a beam; a blush blossoming on her cheeks as he slid the boot carefully back onto her foot.

With one hand gripping the stone ledge, her former brother-warden propelled his bulky frame back up onto the wall beside her. As Alistair settled himself, Flora put her arm around his neck and directed her words into his ear; her breath tickling his neck.

"I _love_ you too, 'brother-warden'_."_

Now it was his turn to grin, clasping their ringed fingers together and bringing them to his mouth for a kiss.

"Well, all this is very sweet," interjected Wynne briskly, as one of the Mabari gave a low rumble to indicate the approach of a familiar face. "But the scouting party are back."

They left the horses tied near the wall, Wynne had volunteered to stay and keep an eye on them. The senior enchanter confessed that she had seen enough Blight-tainted land to last her the rest of her years, and since there was no sign of any Darkspawn – or ghouls – left behind, there was no need for her magical prowess.

Even after the assurance of Teagan that no Darkspawn remained within the ruins of the town, Alistair was reluctant to allow his wife to accompany them. Yet Flora's Herring obstinacy prevailed; she was permitted to come along, as long as she stayed within touching distance of both Zevran and Alistair at all times. Zevran almost made a sly comment, but restrained himself at the last minute.

The main road leading into Lothering was overgrown on both sides, the hedgerows growing wild and rampant across the dirt. The farms that bordered Lothering were quite obviously abandoned; the fields left in abundant disarray. The weeds and tangled grasses had a strange, pallid and unnatural look about them, the product of tainted soil and little nourishment. The farmhouses had fared somewhat better, still seeming relatively intact.

As they walked in a tight clump with the Mabari trotting watchfully at the front of the party, Flora realised that she had walked this road before – albeit in the other direction.

_This is the road we took out of Lothering. Leliana was talking nonstop about how she had always wanted to go on a pilgrimage. She kept asking Alistair what his favourite verse of the Chant was._

The memory brought a smile to Flora's face, one that was quickly erased when she spotted the windmill that marked the edge of Lothering. The entire structure had a strange, lopsided appearance; one of the sheets had fallen loose and was lying at its base, another hung bent and broken.

_Poor, lost Lothering._

Flora swallowed, reaching out blindly into the air at her side. Alistair's strong fingers wrapped around her own, tight and reassuring.

"Say the word," he murmured softly as they approached the derelict town. "Say the word and we'll leave, my love."

"I'm fine," Flora replied immediately, grateful for the natural, cool solemnity of her features. Her face's ambiguous stoicism had carried her through a dozen perils over the past year - it had allowed her to stare down Loghain in the Landsmeet chamber, to pose as a Tranquil in the clutches of Howe, to stand before ten thousand troops and bellow fearless defiance in the face of the incoming horde.

Unfortunately, Flora was speaking to the one person in Thedas who knew the angles and planes of her features better than she did. Alistair had spent the past ten months studying the grave beauty of his sister-warden's face; first in surreptitious, shy little glances, and then in longer, lingering gazes.

"I'm not fooled by that lovely poker-face anymore, darling," Alistair murmured now, as though reading her mind. "You can't hide yourself from me."

Lothering had not been a particularly large settlement; important more for its geographical location within central Ferelden than for any other quality. It had been a town of transient merchants, of travellers, and had once housed more than a half-dozen taverns to cater for this bustling market. In the wake of Ostagar, it had become the reluctant refuge of those fleeing from the south. Some of the towns' residents had taken advantage of the chaos to charge high prices for their wares and rooms, but others had done their best to provide charity for the terrified refugees. The leader of the town, Elder Miriam, had pleaded with the Chantry's Revered Mother to offer more aid. The priestess had protested that they were already stretched beyond breaking point. Their arl, Leonas Bryland, had been summoned to assist Loghain Mac Tir at Ostagar and was thus unable to take charge; though rumours had spread that the arl and the teyrn had fallen out badly over the general's subsequent actions.

When Flora and Alistair arrived within Lothering in the wake of the disaster at Ostagar, they had found that the Grey Wardens had been damned as traitors. Keeping quiet about their affiliation, they had only stayed for a night within the beleaguered town. In the evening, Flora had gone to offer her healing services to the refugees, and she had tried to tell as many as possible to leave. Few had listened; dismissive of a young, grubby and poorly dressed girl – especially one with such a commoner's northern accent.

Now, spread before them, lay the consequences of Ostagar. The buildings lay in ruins that had long ago ceased to smoulder; the black ash of fire washed away by countless rains. The majority of structures stood with only their walls remaining, roofless and exposed to the elements; no lamp-post or fence remained intact. The stone bridge that spanned the stream running through the town had been ravaged to its foundations. There was a stagnant smell to the air, rather than a Blighted one; as though no breeze had disturbed the abandoned ruins for many months. The Chantry roof – the only one that seemed to have remained intact – looked as though it had been struck by lightning.

The Mabari accompanying the party seemed wary but not agitated – they did not sense the presence of either ghoul or Darkspawn. Still, the company proceeded with caution; Teagan and Ser Gilmore taking the lead with their hands on the hilts of their blades.

Flora was deliberately kept in the middle of the party, and from here - since she stood at only three inches over five feet - she found it hard for her to see anything. She suspected that this was Alistair's intention; his fingers roped tightly through hers while Zevran followed so close on her heels that she could feel his breath on the back of her neck.

The men scrambled over the boulders in the stream to cross it in the wake of the bridge's destruction. Flora was about to happily follow suit, when Alistair hoisted her up into his arms and bodily handed her to a reaching Teagan. Flora put her arm around the bann's neck with a little inward sigh; looking forward to the day when she would no longer be a physical burden to those around her.

_I'll get good with my weapons, I'm determined to do so._

"Sorry, I'm heavy now," she told Teagan as he lowered her gently to the muddied bank. "Alistair used to hold me with one arm; now he has to use two."

"Only because I don't want to risk _dropping _you, my love!" Alistair called gallantly, clambering easily up the bank with powerful thighs.

Flora smiled at him, then whispered drily in Teagan's ear. "He's _definitely lying. _Last time he carried me, he was _sweating."_

They passed through to the main square of Lothering;, where not a single building stood intact. The roofs had collapsed into the standing walls, not a window remained whole. The remains of market stalls and the Chanter's board lay splintered across the ground. The fetid smell continued to hang in the air like a foul miasma, although it was still stagnant rather than the sweet-rotten scent of the Blight.

The scouts took soil samples from various locations in glass phials, using gloved hands to lift the earth. These would be sent back to Denerim via Leliana's raven, where the Lothering restoration committee eagerly awaited any news.

"The air doesn't smell _too _foul," ventured Alistair, hopefully. "I know the buildings are destroyed, but if they were cleared and their foundations built upon…"

Letting go of Flora's hand, he reached down to nudge his leather-clad finger into the soil. A pincer beetle scuttled forth, but it had a strange, almost lopsided appearance, as though it had not formed correctly in the tainted earth. Alistair frowned, raising his palm and watching the mutated creature limp over it. He called for a glass phial, deciding that this was as good a sample as any.

Flora, her hand temporarily released from Alistair's fingers, spotted something white and rounded from the tail of her eye. It was half-buried in the earth, and she had just taken a single step towards it when a chiding, familiar arm slid around her waist.

"No wandering off, _mi florita," _murmured Zevran, light and stern. "Did you not hear your husband's edict?"

Flora had no idea what an _edict _was, and so gave a vague shrug; taking another defiant step towards the object. This closer proximity allowed her to discern its nature, and she inhaled a sudden gulp of air. Zevran tightened his grip on her, his head shaking from side to side.

"_Carina, _we both know full-well what it is. Why upset yourself further? Let's go back to the others."

"No, no," Flora whispered back, a sudden impulse striking her. "I'm not upset. I'm not leaving it here."

She made to kneel – awkward as that was – and Zevran went to stop her, ducking elegantly and scooping up the skull from the earth. It was large, rounded and surprisingly intact, though missing its jawbone. Flora gazed at its sad, hollow-eyed face and felt a twinge of sadness, her gut constricting. As though able to sense it's mother's sadness; a baby gave a little comforting wriggle against her stomach.

The elf brushed off the earth, then retrieved a small bottle of dwarven liquor from his pocket. Zevran usually used the potent alcohol to clean his blades; now, he poured the liquid carefully over the skull, making sure that it had been thoroughly cleansed before handing it to Flora.

Flora smiled at her companion, appreciative of his concern. Carefully, she tucked the skull into her leather pouch. The remains took up the majority of the space within the container; she had been banned from carrying her old leather pack due to its size.

"I'm surprised that there aren't more remains," Ser Gilmore commented in an undertone to Teagan as the two men stood to one side. "From what I've heard from the refugees, half the population of Lothering were killed by the horde. That's several hundred people."

"The Darkspawn don't leave the dead," the bann replied, equally soft. "They take them for meat."

Overhearing, Alistair felt a twinge of sadness in his gut; the tawny, intense face of his mentor rising to the forefront of his memory. Determined to begin the construction of Duncan's memorial the moment that they arrived back in Denerim, he took a deep breath and glanced around for Flora. His heart – which leapt forward in panic at realising that she was not at his side – eased back into normal rhythm when he saw her several yards away with a hovering Zevran.

"Sweetheart?" the king called, his voice disturbing the stagnant air. "Are you alright, my love?"

"I'm fine, darling," replied the elf, blithely. "Thank you for your concern!"

Flora beamed as Alistair blinked, grateful for the interjection of a little light-heartedness into a gloomy morning.

They spent an hour more within the body of the village, collecting more samples of soil and wilted vegetation. Zevran, whose latent artistic skills were proving useful, had made a basic pencil sketch on parchment to illustrate the extent of the damage. Finally, there was just one place left within the village which required a visit.

The outer frame of the Lothering Chantry remained surprisingly intact; only one half of its pointed roof had collapsed. The stained glass windows had been thoroughly destroyed, leaving behind colourful, jagged shards of crystal clinging to the stone. There was something obscene about the wanton destruction of such innocuous beauty; it was an act of sheer, spiteful malevolence. The broken glass would not have served the horde any useful purpose; it had been done solely for the purpose of liquidation.

The company stood in the shadow of the half-sunken spire for several moments, gazing at the rotted wooden doors. Dead leaves lay scattered across the steps, yards from a crushed Templar helmet. Melancholy seemed to radiate from the broken spire and sightless windows of the hollowed building; the door stood ajar to reveal only gloom within.

Teagan drew his sword as a precaution, glancing over his shoulder towards Alistair.

"There were a few items that the restoration committee wanted from here. The archives and property records, mainly. They should be stored in the Chantry Mother's quarters."

Alistair nodded, drawing his own sword with one hand while gripping Flora's fingers tightly with the other.

"Let's go cautiously," he warned, with a final glance back at the ruined town. "I don't have a good feeling about this place. Have the Mabari guard the entrance."

The last time that Flora and Alistair had ventured inside the Lothering Chantry, it had been packed full of frightened refugees. Every pew had become temporary accommodation; the benches acting as bed, seat and table for those relocated there. Entire families had crammed themselves into a few square feet, convinced that the stone walls and Maker's benevolence would protect them from the encroaching darkness.

Now, the only evidence of the Chantry's former residents lay strewn across the tiles. The wooden pews and metal goods had been taken for spoils; the belongings of the refugees deemed worthless had been scattered. This callous detritus included a woman's comb, a pair of child's shoes, a much-patched woollen jumper, a series of wooden utensils and several toys broken into pieces. Books – which were also not valued by the horde – lay torn to shreds across the mess; their marked pages strewn like the moulting of some vast, pale-feathered bird. No earthly sign of the occupants remained, yet the forlorn presence of their possessions suggested that they had not been fortunate enough to escape. The remnants of an ineffective barricade still lay broken near the splintered doors. Only the sharp-eyed elf noticed the maroon stains sunken between the tiles; the only physical evidence of the massacre that had taken place within the Chantry's house.

"Maker's Breath," murmured one of the scouts, as Zevran swore in his own tongue beneath his breath. "Poor sods wouldn't have stood a chance."

Alistair felt his heavy-bellied wife flinch beside him, her fingers cold against his palm. Flora was staring at the possessions of children whose mothers had not been able to shield them; whose short lives must have ended in terror and bloodshed as the Darkspawn broke through the barricaded doors.

"Darling," he murmured, seeing her pale, appalled face swivel to take in the wreckage. "My love, I'll take you back to the horses. It's not healthy for you to see this."

"No, no," Flora insisted, taking several gulps of stagnant air. "I'll be alright. We saw worse in the Deep Roads."

"Let's find these records, and be away," suggested Zevran, carefully avoiding a broken doll as he headed towards the altar. "The Mother's dwellings are customarily up here, _sí?"_

The company made their way gingerly up the aisle, passing the great iron brazier of Andraste's eternal flame. To their surprise, a shallow puddle of oil was still burning with a small, defiant flicker in the base of the cauldron. One of the more religious of the guards made a gesture of faith, murmuring something about a _miracle._

The Chantry Mother's office had been devastated, the bookshelves toppled and the desk overturned. All the silverware had been looted, none of the chapel's paltry wealth remained. It was unclear whether this was the fault of the Darkspawn; or an act of desperation by refugees who had passed through after the ransacking.

While Teagan, Zevran and several of the guards began to search through the strewn, soggy papers for anything resembling official documents, Flora looked around for something to sit down on. They had not eaten since breaking their fast and she had been on her feet for nearly two hours; the edges of her vision were beginning to blur.

"Here, sweet girl. Rest while we look."

Alistair was aware of the physical demands of the progress, and thus had a constant eye on his wife's wellbeing. He had found a low, three-legged stool that had escaped the horde's attention, and turned it upright for her; procuring a ripe pear from inside his tunic.

Flora lowered herself to the stool and took the pear gratefully, appreciative as ever of her best friend's concern. She felt the baby fidgeting inside her stomach and swallowed a lump of sadness, recalling the broken doll split into pieces on the tiles.

The men searched for the next half-hour, as the light gradually diminished by inches outside the broken window. The queen shifted on the stool and wished that she could be of more help. Deciding that her dizziness had passed enough to allow her to sit on the floor and sort through papers, she made to rise to her feet.

Just then, from directly overhead, came a sudden, cacophonous pealing of discordant bells. The sound shattered the stagnant air, hollow and atonal; shaking the foundations of the battered building. The men swore in alarm, drawing their swords reflexively.

"By Andraste – what's _that?!"_

"_Where is it coming from?"_

Flora was frozen in fright on the stool – she recognised the sound only too well. The bells of poor, lost Lothering had rung as a dismal accompaniment to her dreams for months during the Blight. One of the few benefits of her new inability to cross the Veil was that she no longer had to hear their desperate calling, pleading for aid that would never come. Yet now, like some waking nightmare, the bells of Lothering were pealing once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Eurghhh! I kept imagining what it would be like to go back to Lothering. I've been to a lot of horrible places in real-life where massacres have taken place (the not so fun part of my day-job as a historian), and I've always been struck by the stillness of the air.
> 
> WHO IS RINGING THE BELLS? Poor old Flo, I'm not sure how well she'd cope if it turned out to be ghosts!


	96. The Mad Priestess

A handful of months prior, clad in a more reckless spirit, Flora would have launched herself to her feet and barrelled her way up the rickety steps leading into the high cloisters. Her shield would have been itching at her fingertips, her spirits crowding against the Veil to whisper advice in her ear. Now - with less than seven weeks to go until the arrival of her baby, and with her spirits scattered to the far corners of the Fade – Flora was more cautious. She rose inelegantly to her feet with her head swivelling towards Alistair.

Her former brother-warden, who had offered comfort after many Lothering-themed nightmares, knew full well the dread significance of the bells pealing above them. Alistair had crossed the Chantry Mother's study in three steps, his hand reaching out for hers. She took it gratefully, rising to her feet as he drew her protectively into his side.

"Stay with me, my love," he said in a voice both strained and measured. "We'll let the others go first. How the fuck did the scouts miss this?”

With Zevran at their rear, Teagan and Ser Gilmore led the way towards the stairs leading up into the Chantry loft, where the bell-ropes hung. The wooden steps creaked but seemed sturdy enough, guiding the company up into the rafters of the building. At the far end of the loft, the bell-ropes hung down against the wall. The noise of the pealing was almost deafening at this proximity, echoing between the floorboards and the lightning-singed rooftop.

A figure was hunched at the end of the loft, swathed in a white, foul-stained cloak. Their head seemed unnaturally elongated and their movements drunkenly uncoordinated; fingers wrapped tight around the bell-ropes as they pulled at them.

Assuming that it was a ghoul, Zevran drew out his throwing blades in preparation to strike. The figure made no acknowledgement of their presence, merely continued to tug incessantly at the bells without skill or design. As they came closer, they realised that it was a woman – clad in the mouldering garb of a Chantry priestess, complete with the tall, ragged hat.

"Stop!" called the Cousland knight, his voice drowned out by the atonal din. "Stop this racket!"

The priestess continued to yank at the ropes, her eyes fixed upwards towards the bells.

Alistair took a deep breath and summoned up a bellow that was part-inherited from Maric and part-inspired by Duncan; a bark infused with royal authority that managed to punctuate even the clamour of the rusting bells.

"_Enough!"_

The woman stopped abruptly, letting the ropes fall from her hands. She turned a haggard, lattice-wrinkled face towards the small company; wisps of greying hair tumbling down from the edges of her stained hat. In an instant, Flora recognised her as the Revered Mother that had given the Wardens two silver candlesticks to aid them on their journey, enabling them to purchase lodgings, and supplies to get to Redcliffe. The elderly woman had been reluctant to offer any further assistance, informing Flora and Alistair that the Grey Wardens had been denounced as a traitorous organisation, held responsible for the death of King Cailan.

"Maker's Breath," said Alistair softly from beside Flora, also recognising the woman in the bloodied robe before them. "Revered Mother? You _survived _the Darkspawn attack?"

"_You've come too late!" _the woman retorted, her voice edging into the hysterical. "Your aid is worthless now! We are lost, lost, lost…"

Muttering feverishly to herself, the priestess scuttled into a corner of the loft where a lumpen bedroll and several meagre possessions had been carefully stashed. She began to sort through them, moving a broken ewer, a bundle of parchment and a stained slipper compulsively from one spot to another.

"She's lost her mind," Teagan murmured in an undertone, lowering but not sheathing his blade. "Let's proceed with caution."

Alistair nodded, keeping a steely grip on his wife's hand as they advanced forwards.

"Do you remember us, Revered Mother?" he asked, softly. "The Grey Wardens that came to Lothering after the fall of Ostagar."

The elderly woman continued to stare up at them, one eye clouded over with a milky cataract.

"Whoever you are," she said, her voice thin and reedy. "You're too late. Lothering is gone. _Bones and teeth, bones and teeth. Howling like demons, they came."_

Flora clutched Alistair's hand in a death-grip, a wave of nausea rolling upwards from her stomach. Despite the fact that Lothering had been destroyed before they had even recruited the first of their three armies; she still felt the guilt like a traitor's sly blade between the ribs.

"Lothering can be rebuilt, Revered Mother," Alistair tried, valiantly. "The Blight is over, and the Archdemon dead."

The woman turned her sightless eye on them, her thin lip curling. In the light of a sickly sunset, they could see several faded maroon stains spread across the fabric of her robe.

"They ate them where they fell," she said, enunciating each word clearly. "The parents watched their children being consumed by the horde. _Little bones, splintering like twigs."_

Flora, in her past life as a Warden, might have been able to maintain her stoicism in the face of this dreadful revelation. Flora of the present, with her belly swollen and her body in hormonal disarray, was unable to maintain her composure. She let out a little choked sound, and Alistair instinctively swivelled at the sound of his distressed wife.

Flora could see the conflict in her best friend's eyes, he clearly wanted to comfort her on the spot, but the others in the company were looking to him for instruction. Torn between duty and personal desire; the king reluctantly chose the former.

"Zev, uncle? Could you take Flo out of this charnel-house?" Alistair said, in measured tones. "I'll be down as soon as I've dealt with… with _this."_

Flora did not remember descending the steps into the main body of the Chantry, nor weaving her way around the broken possessions of the refugees who had been eaten alive within its stone walls. Ultimately, the Maker had offered them neither protection nor deliverance from the bloodthirsty horde.

The Mabari hounds let out a welcoming rumble as the three made their way outside into the insipid flesh-coloured tones of a sickly sunset. The jagged edges of Lothering's ruins were softened somewhat by the desaturated light; though the melancholy mounds of rubble were barely recognisable as once-inhabited structures.

"They killed everyone! They ate the children – aah – _in front of their parents!"_

Flora, who had picked up the headless doll from the Chantry floor, now had tears coursing freely down her cheeks; inhaling in ragged and shallow gasps. The bann was inwardly flailing, not used to administering comfort and unsure where the bounds of propriety lay. Zevran, conversely, had observed brother- and sister-warden together frequently over the past year, and had learnt much from them.

"_Carina, _sit," he instructed, guiding her down gently against the wall. "Come, now. Let's take a deep breath, hm?"

"_Aaah, ah- ah- "_

"_Breathe, mi reina. _Just like we did in the mountains, remember? Come on, breathe with me."

Just as he had once done in the Frostback mountains nearly a year prior, the elf gradually cajoled Flora out of her hyperventilation. When she was once again breathing in a somewhat normal rhythm, he put an arm around her. She let her head loll against Zevran's shoulder; sniffing and wiping her nose on her sleeve. The Mabari came snuffling about her anxiously, concerned for the mother of the Theirin heir's wellbeing. One of them rested a paw on her knee and she patted it with clumsy fingers.

Zevran let his head rest against hers, humming fragments of a half-forgotten Antivan melody under his breath. The rich sweetness of the tune - even in pieces - was comforting, and Flora closed her eyes with an unsteady gulp of air.

A short while later, the sound of hasty footsteps came hurrying across the tiled floor; the door was shoved open without ceremony.

"My love," a familiar voice breathed, wrought with concern. "My own sweet wife."

Flora raised her head and reached up her arms even before she had opened her eyes. The next moment, she felt herself being hoisted into the air as Alistair lifted her up onto his waist with a soft grunt; wrapping a firm, protective grasp about her.

"We're going," the king said shortly, addressing the rest of the company as he held his wife in his arms. "There's nothing more that can be done here, since the Chantry Mother refuses to leave. We've got our samples and as much of the town records as we can salvage."

Flora put her face against his shoulder, the words of the maddened priestess echoing between her ears.

_Little bones, splintering like twigs._

_The parents watched their children consumed by the horde._

She felt Alistair's hand at her back, stroking up and down over the wool-covered skin.

"I'm taking you away from this damned village, my love," he murmured, his face set in iron-clad determination. "It's a terrible place. I don't think they should try and rebuild here, even if the soil is redeemable. I think you're right, it is haunted."

Alistair continued to talk in a low, continuous murmur as they left the doomed ruins of Lothering; leaving the jagged silhouettes of buildings and stagnant, death-tinged air in their wake. Flora was no easy burden to bear in her swollen-bellied state; but the king's strength and stamina were fuelled by a determination to remove his queen from the source of her distress as quickly as possible.

Flora had stopped crying, her fingers wrapped in a death-grip around the broken doll. Alistair's murmured words were like a series of small, leaded bait-hooks; pulling her up through the depths of her despair until she was merely sad. She rested her chin on his shoulder, listening to him talk about the stew he was going to make for dinner tonight.

"I think I'm actually quite good at cooking, Flo," he confessed to her earnestly as they travelled between two wilting hedgerows. "Especially once Zevran showed me how to use _pepper_. Anyway, I'm going to make us a stew from that hideous-looking fish you pulled out of the water the other day."

"Fish- fish stew?"

"Sure, baby. The men are all dubious – they think it sounds a bit _Orlesian – _but I'm going to convince them otherwise. The Orlesians have a fancy name for fish stew, don't they? Leliana told it to us, once."

"Bool – bowl- _bolly-bass," _confirmed Flora, sniffling. "I don't remember."

"'_Bouillabaisse'," _corrected Zevran, who had been eavesdropping. "Although in Antiva, we call it _gazpachuelo."_

Flora wiped her nose on the back of her hand and lifted her head, roused from her melancholy.

"The fish reminded me of _Grand-Duc Gaspard," _she said, cheering a fraction. "With the whiskers."

"We'll call it Grand-Duke stew, then," Alistair replied, pressing his lips to the top of her head. "In his dubious honour."

Suddenly intensely grateful for her husband's presence, Flora hooked her arm around his neck and nuzzled her face against the strong muscle and sinew.

"Thank you," she whispered fervently into his ear. "I love you. _I love you."_

Alistair inhaled unsteadily, clutching her a fraction tighter.

"You don't need to thank me," he murmured, equally earnest. "I swore an oath before the Maker- and _all _Thedas - that I would spend my life making you happy and keeping you safe. I intend to fulfil my promise."

As much as Alistair had wanted to leave Lothering behind that evening, the night had drawn in too quickly and they were forced to make camp near the bridge where they had left the horses. True to his word, the king made the entire company a stew from Flora's ugly fish, and a mixture of root vegetables. He and Zevran put on a deliberate show while cooking, arguing loudly over which – _and what quantity of_ \- spices to add; their purpose to distract Flora from the ruined village that lay just beyond the rise of the hill.

Flora knew that her attention was deliberately being diverted from the wasted remains, and she was filled with affection for both of her companions and their valiant efforts. She offered slightly damp-eyed advice on the cooking time for the fish, tasted spoonfuls when offered them and praised her husband's efforts when the time to eat arrived. The other members of their company – initially somewhat wary of a stew made from _fish – _soon came round after inhaling the smoky, rich aroma emanating from the cooking-pot.

As the fire hissed and crackled, Zevran told several amusing anecdotes relating to dishes from his native Antiva. Unfortunately, many of these related to adding some sort of poison or toxic substance to food items, and the tales merely made the company twitchy. Wynne's recollection of First Enchanter Irving's unpleasant reaction to shellfish was far more popular with the party; Ser Gilmore almost choked on a chunk of turnip as he laughed.

"I have a story too," Alistair chimed in, slightly self-conscious. "Not about fish, but about stew. I don't know if there's any truth in the tale; I remember the cook at Redcliffe Castle telling it to me when I was younger."

He reached out and tapped his fingers gently on Flora's swollen stomach, immediately feeling a small responding nudge.

"This is your bedtime story, little one. Listen well, then you can go to sleep and not keep your mother up all night with your squirming."

Flora smiled at him, hoping that his words would drown out the melancholy echo of Lothering's bells between her ears. Her best friend grinned back at her, taking a gulp of ale before continuing on.

"Some hungry travellers once arrived at a village, and asked for food to sustain them. When the villagers claimed that they barely had enough to feed themselves, the travellers filled a pot with water and stones, and began to boil it over a fire. When one of the villagers asked what they were doing, the travellers replied that they were making a delicious _Stone Soup, _and needed only a few vegetables to thicken the broth. The villager found that he could spare a few carrots to add to the soup. Next, his neighbour came along, and realised that he could add a little seasoning to the water to make the soup taste _even better_. One by one, the villagers added a small part of what they could spare to the soup, to help it reach its full potential. And at the end of it, the travellers removed the stones and there was enough delicious, nourishing stew to feed everybody."

"Ooh," breathed Flora, suddenly wishing that she had a second bowl of stew. "I'm hungry again, now."

"Well, I'm _disappointed !" _retorted Zevran, leaning back on his elbows in the damp grass and letting out a petulant huff. "What is a folk-story without a little sex or death, _hm?_"

Nobody was much in the mood for late-night entertainment; unable to escape the long shadow of Lothering beyond the rise. The Wicked Grace cards remained tucked away in various pockets, and no one suggested a drinking contest or exchange of jokes. The company retired to their tents in a sombre silence, eager for dawn to arrive so that they could put the ransacked village at their backs and turn their faces to the future.

Inside the tent, Flora lay on the bedroll and listened to Alistair conversing quietly with Teagan several yards away through the canvas. The king and the bann were clearly trying to keep their voices down, yet she was still able to make out their muffled exchange.

"I still feel bad about leaving the old priestess," Alistair was saying fretfully, his words shot through with indecision and guilt. "It doesn't seem right."

"Alistair, there was nothing we could have done save for dragging her bodily from the Chantry," came Teagan's even voice in response. "The woman was half-mad. When we arrive at the next village, we'll let them know that she's still alive. Perhaps someone might know her; they might be able to persuade her to leave."

The king grunted in response, clearly still unhappy but unable to come up with any alternative. Moments later, firelight spilled inside the tent as he pulled back the entrance flap, ducking inside and letting it drop behind him.

Flora reached up for him wordlessly, suddenly wanting nothing more than to feel her strong, sturdy husband's body alongside her own. She had already wriggled out of her smallclothes, her nightshirt unbuttoned down to her swollen stomach.

"Alistair," she whispered, her voice faint and husky in her throat. "Alistair, _please."_

His wife's need was so raw that Alistair did not even spare the time to remove his boots. Pulling open Flora's shirt for a better view of her full, rounded breasts, he was erect by the time he had finished unbuttoning his breeches. Within moments, the king was inside his queen, the damp blankets tangled around their legs as he thrust in a carefully regulated rhythm. His breath emerged in heated pants against the back of Flora's neck; she unashamedly spurred him on with wanton little moans.

To make up for his reluctance to take her too forcefully, Alistair murmured a hoarse litany of perverse things that he was going to do to her once they were able to resume their normal bedroom repertoire. The lewdness of his whisper in her ear contrasted with the gentle rocking of his hips; husband made love to his wife with tender caution while simultaneously describing how he was intending to debauch her in all manner of unspeakable ways.

Beneath the bright light of day, Alistair would vehemently deny using such crudeness of language, insisting that he barely knew what those sort of words even _meant. _Yet Maric's youngest son had inherited the Theirin instinct to dominate in the bedroom as well as in the council chamber; and under cover of darkness, he expressed desires that would make even a dwarf blush.

As usual, the king fell asleep shortly after finishing within her. Alistair kissed his wife goodnight with sleepy affection, before settling back on the bedroll with her nestled in his arms. Flora lay against him, taking deep gulps of air to calm her racing heart; gazing unseeingly into the gloomy interior of the tent.

The distant bells of Lothering rang once more within the confines of her skull. Flora did not know whether the sound had emerged from her memory, or if the sad, maddened priestess was yanking at the Chantry bell-ropes in a frenzied, futile plea for aid. Suddenly, warm within Alistair's arms, the former Warden and new queen of Ferelden realised what she had to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: OMG FLORA WHAT NOW? You're literally seven months pregnant, this is no time for nocturnal adventures, haha!
> 
> The Stone Soup is actually a common folk-story, found in a variety of different cultures. I think it's a bit of a parable, something to do with sharing and caring, I'd imagine.
> 
> I couldn't actually find the name of the Lothering Chantry priestess anywhere – if anyone knows her name, please let me know and I'll edit it in!


	97. A Consecration For The Dead

Very carefully, Flora squirmed herself free from her husband's embrace. Alistair's warm, lengthy limbs were like tentacles, they curled everywhere and were almost impossible to escape from. Knowing that it would be hard to leave the tent undetected from the front entrance – one of the guards had a bedroll directly in front of the canvas flap – Flora instead reached out a tentative arm towards the _side _of the tent. As she had hoped, the heavy canvas wall was only pegged into the earth; her probing fingers could reach out and touch the damp grass.

Flora inched herself gingerly across the bedroll – thinking gloomily on _quite how much _she must resemble a beached whale – and wriggled several pegs free from the earth. Soon, she had worked open a large enough gap in the canvas for her to squirm through. She did so while holding her breath and hoping that Alistair would not wake.

Fortunately, her husband was still immersed in a deep, post-coital slumber. Now on the grass outside the tent, Flora clambered awkwardly to her feet; grateful that she had remembered to grab her boots and a woollen jumper before slithering out.

The campfire had dwindled to muted embers, yet the tents were bathed in silvery light by a full and gregarious moon. A constellation hung low overhead, like a series of small suspended lamps. The night sky was indeed so beautiful that Flora wished that she had a measure of artistic talent, through which to replicate the lustrous assembly on parchment. Grateful that it was a moonlit night, she pulled on boots and jumper while holding her breath; grateful that the normal rustles of nocturnal creatures disguised the sounds that she was making. Even Zevran, who slept with one ear constantly pricked for danger, had not been roused.

However, there were several residents of the camp whom Flora had no hope of sneaking past. As she sidled towards the narrow road that led towards Lothering, two Mabari trotted forwards with soft, chiding rumbles of caution. Flora could have sworn that they were gazing reproachfully at her belly, inside which- unbeknownst to her – _two _Theirin heirs were snugly nestled.

"I'm not going far," she whispered, grateful for her voice's naturally soft, hoarse timbre. "Or anywhere dangerous. There's something I want to do before we leave."

The intelligent hounds gazed up at her with identically dubious expressions. One of them – a bay bitch who had just birthed a litter last spring – cocked it's head towards Alistair's tent; as though prepared to wake the king with a bark.

"Noooo," pleaded Flora, wide-eyed. "Nooo! Come with me, instead. You can keep us safe."

She patted her stomach and smiled winningly at the Mabari. The dogs relented, trotting forward to escort her on both sides.

The moon hung low in the sky overhead, as though curious as to what the Queen of Ferelden was doing sneaking through the shadows at such a late hour. Flora had located the trail that led back to Lothering and was heading resolutely down it; her chin up and her face wreathed in determination. The ravaged town lay only a quarter-mile away, hidden from sight by the lay of the landscape. Only the spire of the Chantry was visible from a distance, presiding over the ruins with hollow authority.

Flora heard the bells of Lothering ring once more, faint enough that she knew them to be a manifestation from her own memory. One of the Mabari hounds licked her hand, sensing her discomfort; she patted it on its velvety head, suddenly grateful for the company.

_I was frightened of ghosts when we came here yesterday. I was sure that if I saw a ghost, I'd faint on the spot. Or go into labour._

As she neared the town, the tall hedgerows began to subside; affording a view of the sad, derelict remnants of buildings. The Chantry – where so many residents had made a desperate last stand, only to be slaughtered in their dozens – loomed above the ruins like a headstone.

_Now, if I saw a ghost, I'd feel only sympathy for its plight. How can any soul pass peacefully through the Veil when their life was ended so brutally? They had no prayer-service, or funeral. There's no memorial for the people who died here._

_It's not right._

One of the infants in her stomach woke up and shifted, waking its sibling. Flora – who naturally could not discern the movements of one from the other – assumed that the baby was being particularly fidgety.

"Go back to sleep, shrimp," she told it, sternly. "This doesn't involve you."

The Mabari pricked up their ears as they entered the abandoned village, heads swivelling as they sniffed for any potential threat. Flora, who was still gamely trying to persuade herself that a ghost-sighting would prompt _sympathy _rather than sheer terror, headed for the broken bridge that led to the Chantry-dominated side of town.

Negotiating the dried-up stream was more difficult without assistance. Flora was grateful for the moonlight, making her way laboriously down the bank and scrambling around the boulders. One of the Mabari hovered at Flora's side, offering its own haunches for the queen to stabilise herself.

Shivering slightly in the chilly night breeze, Flora came to a halt before Lothering's Chantry. The broken doors now held a new, dreadful significance; it did not take a great leap of the imagination to picture the Darkspawn ploughing their way inside.

_The parents watched their children consumed by the horde._

Flora swallowed, forcing the priestess' words from her mind.

_Come on, Flora. If there _are _ghosts here, they'll approve of what you intend to do._

"Come on, dogs," she said to the Mabari, taking a deep breath and lifting her chin with Herring fortitude. "This is what we came to do."

Summoning her courage – missing the comforting presence of _Valour _– Flora made her way inside the ruined Chantry. Shafts of moonlight penetrated through the broken roof, illuminating the hollow space below with shifting, silvered light. Now that she had learnt of the massacre that had taken place within these stone walls, Flora could see remnants of conflict all around. The gaps between the floor tiles were caked with coagulated maroon; there were claw-marks marring each thick stone pillar. The broken pews had been arranged in a makeshift barricade, which had only delayed the inevitable by mere seconds.

As though aware of her presence, the bells began to ring overhead; a hollow, funereal pealing. Although Flora had been bracing herself for their resonating clamour, the sheer volume still came as a shock. She grimaced, tilting her face upwards towards the rafters. The Mabari growled softly in the back of their throats, sensing the presence of another being.

"It's alright, I know who it is," Flora reassured them, her words drowned out by the metallic clanging. "Let's go upstairs."

She made her way across the bloodied tiles, avoiding the tangled debris and scattered possessions. The small flame in Andraste's brazier still burned away defiantly; assiduously maintained by Lothering's sole survivor.

The moment that the queen put her foot on the wooden stair that led up into the roof, the ringing of the bells stopped. The stillness was now broken only by the creak of the steps, and by Flora's quiet puffing as she clambered up into the Chantry loft. The Mabari followed close on her heels, every muscle in their finely-honed bodies taut and coiled ready to spring.

"Revered Mother?"

Flora looked around the loft, which appeared much the same as it had done that afternoon. The mouldering bedroll still lay in one corner, surrounded by tattered books and a meagre collection of possessions; the bell ropes swung gently in the draught from the broken window. Yet there was no elderly priestess silhouetted against the moonlit backdrop, the loft appeared devoid of human life.

Then the bay Mabari let out a low growl of warning, turning on the spot with its hackles rising. The priestess was behind them, close enough that Flora could see the whites of her staring eyes; one clouded by the cataract.

"_No peace for the murdered dead," _the Revered Mother whispered, looking straight through the startled queen. _"No restful sleep for those who were forgotten. Their souls cling to this building like flies on rotten flesh."_

Flora took a deep, steadying breath, thinking _I'm not afraid of death, I've fought it for years._

_I was a spirit healer; I defied death with each breath I took._

"I'm Flora," she said, forsaking any title, and returning to the simple and lowly girl she had been when they had first arrived within Lothering, nine months prior. "I just wanted to say… thank you for the candlesticks."

This was such a strange comment that the old priestess closed her mouth; biting off the next maddened diatribe before it could emerge. She eyed Flora through her good eye, skeins of greying hair hanging loose beneath a hat that sat slumped and mildewed atop her skull.

"The… candlesticks?"

Her voice broke slightly, and there was the faintest tinge of sanity embedded within the query. Flora seized upon this thread of clarity and pulled gently on it; silently berating herself for being too emotional to do so that afternoon.

"Yes," she replied, patiently. "I was a member of the Wardens. I came here with my brother-warden Alistair after Ostagar. You gave us a pair of silver candlesticks, and we bought two packhorses and enough supplies to reach Redcliffe."

Flora's voice sounded odd, echoing within the Chantry that had become an inadvertent tomb for many of its worshippers. Her words were met with a heavy silence: a rich, intangible void that seemed to contain more pricked ears than simply those belonging to the Chantry priestess. Flora wondered how many unmourned spirits were clinging to the blood-stained walls, embedding ethereal fingers into the cracks and hanging from the ceiling like spiders; dusting themselves off and focusing their attention on the waking world.

The priestess said nothing, but continued to stare at her with a vaguely malevolent suspicion. Flora felt comforted by the presence of the Mabari, but soon realised that she was not scared of this sad old woman, who had lived nine months with only the dead for company.

"And once we got to Redcliffe, Bann Teagan Guerrin aided us," she continued, recalling the snow-covered stone edifice of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. "And we built our cause until we had three armies and the support of the Landsmeet. We defended Denerim from the Darkspawn, and we defeated the Archdemon. But it all started from two candlesticks. _Thank you."_

Flora took another gulp of stagnant air, feeling a squirm from within her stomach. Ignoring the baby, she fixed her pale, entreating gaze on the woman's sunken-cheeked face; hoping that her words still sounded steady and assured.

"The bells of Lothering never left me," she breathed, wide-eyed and earnest. "I could hear them ringing in my head when I slew the Archdemon. I lit candles for the people who died here. I promise, I _never_ forgot."

The priestess made a small, choked sound; lifting her once-wise, bloodshot eyes towards the bell-tower that rose in skeletal framework overhead.

One of the plump little creatures within Flora's stomach gave another vigorous squirm, waking up it's sibling once again. Both infants pressed down on their mother's bladder and Flora pulled an involuntary face.

_This is a dramatic moment, _she thought, sulkily. _I can't go and find a bush right in the middle of it._

_I don't even think there are any bushes left within Lothering._

She pressed a hand to her stomach, hoping to coax the baby into a more comfortable position. The priestess followed the motion of her hand; her eyes widening imperceptibly.

"You're… you're with child?"

It was the first vaguely sane question that the Revered Mother had asked. Flora nodded solemnly, a small flicker of hope flaring within her. Instead of giving a verbal response, she lifted the hem of her woollen jumper to show the swell of her stomach against the linen nightshirt. As if on cue, a faint ripple of movement passed beneath the material; evident of burgeoning life.

"You look nearly full-term," the priestess observed at last, her eyes focused on the size of Flora's belly. "When… when is it due?"

"Not until Harvestmere," Flora replied, gloomily. "Everyone keeps telling me how _big _I am. I'm going to end up birthing a _donkey."_

One of the Mabari pressed a cold nose against her fingers reassuringly, and Flora scratched the top of its velvety head. For several minutes, they stood in silence – the pyjama-clad queen, the sad, half-mad priestess and the eternally vigilant Theirin hounds – within the funereal silence of the abandoned Chantry; the resting place for so many of Lothering's most vulnerable citizens. Unmourned and unburied, all that remained of them were the few faded stains smeared across the tiles, and a plethora of broken belongings.

"Come with us," Flora whispered, feeling a whisper of cool breath across the back of her neck. "We're travelling to Eldham village tomorrow, and then to Pendle. There must be someone there who knows you."

A flicker of recognition passed across the Revered Mother's face. As the priestess of the largest Chantry in the area, she had often travelled between the smaller villages on church business.

"_But the unmarked dead," _Mother Dorothea croaked after a moment, her eyes hollow with regret and a vein of mania shot through her words. _"The unmarked dead._ They crowd within these walls; trapped! Trapped, trapped, trapped…"

"I've got an idea," said Flora, and then impulsively reached out her hand, compassion rising to the fore. "Come with me?"

The air high above Lothering was clear and crisp, a deep night sky remained unclouded. A myriad of stars wreathed a moon that hung like the Maker's own lantern; bathing the village in a metallic lustre. Below this heavenly array, the Revered Mother stood on the dirt-packed ground before the Chantry, her slight, sunken frame wrapped in a stained blanket. As the elderly woman gazed up at the jagged gaps in the walls where stained glass windows had once proudly stood; she fancied that she saw the faces of the Darkspawn's victims, crowded together within the tomb-like walls.

Within the Chantry itself, Flora was gingerly picking her way around the tangled debris, avoiding the broken remains of pews and trying not to look at the maroon stains caked between the tiles. Cradled in the crook of her arm were a half-dozen waxed leather pouches, each one stopped with a plug and making a liquidous sound with each step.

Letting one empty oil-pouch drop to the tiles, Flora awkwardly retrieved another one and pulled the stopper out with her teeth, grimacing as the fragranced oil leaked across her tongue. Tipping the pouch upside-down, she shuffled backwards down the aisle, pouring a trail of liquid in her wake. The elderly priestess had shown her where the oil reserves used to fuel Andraste's flame were kept; Flora had taken every pouch and was in the process of thoroughly dousing the lower floor.

"Oops," she mumbled, as one pouch slithered free and dropped to the tiles. "Oh, dear."

The bay Mabari hound retrieved it carefully within delicately-clamped jaws; lifting the flask back up to the queen's stretching fingers.

"Thank you. Yes, I'm _being _careful," she added, noticing the Mabari hound's reproachful look. "Don't scowl at me, you'll get wrinkles_."_

Ten minutes later, and Flora had spilled the contents of the final flask across the tiles near the cracked stone altar. Taking a deep breath – for a moment, she was convinced that there was someone standing behind her – she climbed the low steps leading to the small brazier housing Andraste's flame.

Sending up a quick, apologetic prayer – there was no way for her to do this in a graceful or respectful manner – Flora placed both hands on the brazier and gave it a little shove. The bronze tripod toppled, the burning oil spilling across the stone platform. Moments later, the flame caught the base of the wooden lectern.

As the first tendrils of smoke began to wend their way upwards, Flora made a hasty retreat down the central aisle; nudged onwards by the increasingly agitated Mabari hounds. Even before she had reached the broken doors at the entrance, she heard the distinctive hiss of oil catching alight; the smell of smoke mingling with heated incense. The flame spread to a toppled bench, the wood crackling as it splintered in the heat.

Pushing at the rotted door, Flora emerged out into the crisp, star-studded night. To her relief, the priestess was still standing there huddled in her blanket, barefoot on the dusty earth.

"Is it done?" the Revered Mother asked, tremulously.

Flora nodded, then felt one of the Mabari hounds tugging insistently at the hem of her jumper with its teeth.

"Let's move back," she whispered, glancing at the tendrils of smoke creeping out from beneath the door. "I think it's going to go up quickly."

Together, queen, priestess and Mabari retreated, past the remnants of the Chanter's board and the broken tangle of market stalls. By the time that they turned to face the Chantry once again, the hollow windows were filled with an orange glow, slender wisps of smoke emerging from the bell-tower. The fire had taken hold within the building now; chewing through wood and splitting apart tile, igniting Flora's haphazard trails of oil.

_It's a pyre, of sorts, _Flora thought to herself as she watched the flames crawling up the outside of the building. It was so hot that she could feel the heat prickling against her skin even from a distance; the smoke acrid in her nostrils.

_If there were any ghosts trapped within the walls where they died, I hope that this frees them._

_I remember watching Cailan's ashes spiralling towards the heavens when we burnt him at Ostagar._

Before long, the bell-tower was ablaze, a great flaming column that extended like a pointing finger towards the heavens. The bells of Lothering - which had haunted Flora since first hearing them in the depths of a nightmare – were finally silenced by the crackle and hiss of purifying flame.

_I'm sorry that nobody came to help you, _she thought, feeling tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. _And I'm sorry for the way that you died. I hope you've found peace._

_I'll keep lighting a candle for poor, lost Lothering, for the rest of my life._

Beside her, the priestess dropped to her knees in silent prayer. Flora was so absorbed in staring at the burning Chantry that she did not hear the Mabari hounds give a soft whine of welcome.

A strong arm suddenly encompassed her from behind, and she heard her husband let out a shaky, wordless sigh of relief. Flora swivelled as much as she could within Alistair's grip, seeing the rest of the company gathered beside the remains of the broken bridge. Their expressions ranged from relief to reprimand; although all eyes soon focused on the spectacle of the burning Chantry. There was something oddly spiritual about the building's cremation; the site of the slaughter purged by flame and perfumed smoke.

Alistair, his heart still racing from the trauma of finding the bedroll empty and his fat-bellied wife vanished into the night, prepared to launch into a stream of reproach. Moments later, gazing at Flora's tear-stained face, he changed his mind; putting aside his own fear-fuelled admonition in favour of offering comfort. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he reached down to wipe a smudge of ash from her cheek.

"Are you alright, my love?" he murmured, and there was such tender concern in his voice that Flora felt a second surge of emotion. She did not reply but reached out needful arms, and Alistair drew her into a tight, affectionate embrace. Pressing his face against the top of her head, he inhaled the scent of smoke and smouldering perfume from her tangled hair.

Together, the company stood and watched the site of Lothering's massacre burn to the ground; a beacon of flame visible for miles in the surrounding bannorn. Teagan – aware that the village's fate could so easily have befallen Redcliffe if the horde had travelled in a slightly different direction – murmured a quiet prayer of remembrance beneath his breath. Wynne, overhearing and recognising the familiar words, added her own voice midway through.

Zevran kept one eye on the flames and the other eye on the trembling priestess, who was still prostrate on the ground with her hat nearly slipping from her head. Still not prepared to take any chances, his fingers crept compulsively over the hilt of his blade.

The king of Ferelden's heart was still racing at rapid pace within his ribcage; his mind unhelpfully barraging him with inferences about what his heavily pregnant wife had been doing for the past two hours.

_Wandering down a trail alone at night._

_Entering Lothering's half-ruined Chantry to speak with a woman driven mad by grief and horror._

_Burning down a building!_

Biting back a subsequent groan, Alistair drew Flora's warm, sturdy frame closer to his chest; ducking his head to rest his chin atop her smoke-infused hair.

"Darling," he whispered somewhere east of her ear, fingers dropping to caress the swell of her stomach. "My heart, I think there's a small part of you that still believes you're invincible."

A guilty Flora flinched; his words striking a familiar chord.

"I took the dogs," she whispered, knowing that this was no substitute for her husband's company.

"Take _me _next time," Alistair countered, a none-too-subtle plea within the request. "_Please, _sweetheart. I swore an oath before all Thedas to protect you, and I swore another to Pel – your dad. If you'd been hurt – _or worse _– I don't know what I would have done."

"I'm sorry," Flora said, and she was. "I just… I didn't want to disturb your sleep."

He shot her a stern glance, even as one hand dropped to caress her stomach.

"My love, we're going to have _a lot_ of interrupted sleep in the immediate future. Might as well get into the habit now!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Ooooh this is a long chapter but I wanted it to be all in one, especially for the 100th chapter. Lothering has always been a recurrent theme in my story – Flora sees it as the embodiment of all the damage wrought on Ferelden by the Darkspawn – and so I wanted to give it a good send-off, as it were. Plus I like visual things, and the mental image of the Chantry burning to the ground was pleasing to me (in a non-arsonist sort of way, lol). It was meant to be a bit like a pyre, considering so many of the villagers died within the church itself.
> 
> Poor Alistair, though! I think he's got a point when he says that Flora acts like she's still got her shield and healing ability. He's right – logically, Flora knows that she's weak and vulnerable now, but her instincts were honed by a lifetime of assistance from her spirits.


	98. Lake Grab-A-Bag

Nobody was sorry to leave Lothering in their wake the next day. With soil samples tucked into leather packs and sketches of the ruins made by Zevran's skilled hand, they packed up camp and set their horses westwards. Originally, Teagan had thought about suggesting a detour to Redcliffe, which lay at Lake Calenhad's southernmost tip. It would add a week onto their journey, but would allow the bann to carry out some administrative business on behalf of his brother.

However, after a muted conversation with Wynne that morning, Teagan changed his mind. The senior enchanter had raised the possibility that Flora was expecting twins; a suspicion that she had harboured for some time, based on the size of the queen's belly. Twins often arrived several weeks earlier than their single counterparts, which – with their current plans – would risk their queen going into labour on the road. Teagan had immediately taken out the map and spent nearly an hour pouring over Ferelden's roadways, working out how they could shorten their journey at each proposed leg of the route.

The priestess' mental state had improved rapidly with the increasing miles between the company and the doomed town. Ser Gilmore had manfully offered to take her on the back of his horse; she had said very little, but had murmured a quiet thank you when offered an apple for breakfast. There was still something not quite balanced within the staring depths of her eyes, but at least she was no longer bewailing the slaughter of Lothering's residents in lurid, gory detail.

They passed through a small deciduous wood, following one of the many tributary rivers that meandered towards Ferelden's largest inland body of water. A little village – which had chosen to pray for salvation rather than flee in the face of the horde – lay tucked into a bend in the river. At first they mistook Alistair for Cailan, and then it came out that they hadn't even heard that the Blight was over. The company reacted with quiet incredulity, save for Flora. If the men of Herring had not been summoned to fight for Highever during the final battle against the Darkspawn, it was highly likely that they would have paid little attention to the rumours of Blight.

The priestess turned out to have family residing within the village – a middle-aged niece, who had a henpecked husband and a no-nonsense attitude. The niece readily agreed to take her aunt in; delighted that the elderly woman had survived Lothering's destruction.

The company continued westwards, taking advantage of the summer sunset to ride late into the evening. They made camp on the shore of the smaller lake that fed into Calenhad's south-eastern tip; which marked the beginning of Guerrin territory. Teagan took his bow into these more familiar woods and replenished their meat stocks over the course of several hours.

Flora had not passed a very pleasant few days on the road. She spent much of it with the heads of her babies pressed against her bladder; which was both uncomfortable and extremely inconvenient on a long journey. At one point, the company had stopped six times in an hour to allow the queen to vanish behind a bush. In addition to being saddle-sore, her entire aching body felt raw and wrung out with fatigue. That morning, she had been violently sick for the first time in a month.

Tears of weariness and frustration emerged mid-afternoon on the third day of their travels, just as they came to a halt in a shady clearing. Alistair was consumed with guilt at being the cause of his wife's discomfort – after all, they were only on progress because he was _king. _For several moments, he seriously considered calling off the entire journey and returning to Denerim as swiftly as possible.

Wynne made Flora some of the tea prepared by the midwife and Zevran had made her laugh with his impression of Arlessa Isolde – which even Teagan had smiled at. The Mabari had been hovering anxiously about her for hours, sensing her despondency.

Sitting on the damp grass, aware of the raw culpability scrawled across Alistair's face, Flora took a deep breath. She made herself smile up at Zevran, reached out to pat the Mabari; took sips of Wynne's herbal concoction. By the time that she had finished her tea, she had calmed down enough to assuage some of Alistair's concerns. To the king's immense relief, Ser Gilmore came up with a slight alteration to their route that would allow them to pass the night in a tavern as opposed to a tent.

The company proceeded to follow a long, gently sloping trail that climbed towards the apex of a grassy ridge. The sun was just lowering itself towards the distant Frostbacks; flooding the sky with a painter's palette of mauve, apricot, and streaks of lurid pink. The first faint flecks of stars were just about visible within the ambrosial cloud, like distant chips of glass.

Zevran, who had urged his horse onwards, reached the top of the ridge first. The elf was rewarded with a view of Lake Calenhad, spreading out before him like a great inland sea. Deeper than anyone had ever been able to measure, it stretched from Redcliffe in the south to the Circle in the north; it took three days for a fast rider to travel from end to end.

The others soon joined him atop the grassy ridge, their imaginations equally captured by the sheer scale of the vast lake. Teagan pointed out the distant shadow of Redcliffe, a day's ride to the south. Above the town rose the rocky promontory upon which Redcliffe Castle stood vigil.

"You know the old story about Lake Calenhad, don't you?" Wynne murmured, her pale blue eyes meandering across the water's still surface.

"The one about the mages turning cups of lake water into a suit of invincible armour for Calenhad?" Alistair replied, distracted by the waking Flora shifting against his chest. "I remember Eamon told me that one when I was a boy."

"No, the even _older _story. The Avvar legend," corrected Wynne, a faint smile writ across her face. "I'll tell you once we reach the tavern."

Flora opened her eyes, reaching up to rub grubby fingers over her face.

"Where are – oh!"

She sat upright as best she could, her pale irises sweeping across the vast, unruffled surface of the lake. She spared Redcliffe Castle a brief glance, more focused on the little fishing village sprawled at the base of the muddy red cliffs.

"Oh!" she repeated, wonderingly. "We're at Lake Calenhad."

"Actually, _mi sirenita," _piped up Zevran from an adjacent horse, a mischievous smile spreading across his face. "This is Lake _Grab-a-bag,_ an adjacent body of water slightly to the west of Lake Calenhad. Home to many robber-barons and thief-guilds."

Flora's jaw dropped and she clutched her pack a little tighter to her chest.

"Oh! Grab-a-bag? _Robber-barons?"_

"_Sí, carina. _Look, there is the keep of the notorious scoundrel, Ser Rob-a-lot! He once stole forty three goats from his neighbour."

The elf extended a slender, tattooed finger towards Redcliffe Castle; perched like a watchful Mabari atop its jutting cliff. Flora gaped up at it gormlessly, while Wynne sighed under her breath and Teagan wondered whether or not to gently intervene.

"Huh! It looks just like Redcliffe Castle!

"An _astonishing_ coincidence, _nena."_

Alistair, who had been fiddling with the compass, looked up as Flora nudged him in the ribs.

"Are you feeling better, my love?"

"You need to arrest the owner of that castle," his wife instructed him, wide-eyed and outraged as she jabbed a finger up at Redcliffe's imposing grey façade. "Immediately!"

"_Whaa-,"_ said Alistair, confused. "Why, what's he done?"

"He's a _robber! A robber-baron. _He stole forty seven goats!"

"_Eamon?!"_

By this point, Zevran was nearly falling off his saddle, unable to suppress a surge of giggles. Alistair's gaze swung suspiciously over to the elf and his nostrils flared with indignation.

"What have you been telling Flo, you damned Antivan?"

Zevran was chortling so hard that he could not reply, so Wynne stepped in with a faintly reproving, yet semi-amused explanation. As Alistair listened, his jaw dropped and his arms tightened protectively around a thoroughly confused Flora.

"You've been making fun of my wife!" he retorted, indignant. "The mother of my child!"

"Only teasing," crooned Zevran, as a wholly unbothered Flora yawned and rubbed at her eyes. "You know I would never make fun of _mi límonita. _I _adore_ her."

With athletic grace, he wound the reins around one wrist and leaned across the gap between their saddles, kissing Flora on the cheek as she blinked bemusedly at him.

"Baby brain," murmured the senior enchanter to Teagan, who let out a soft grunt. "When I was expecting my own child, I would forget what floor my quarters were on."

Immediately, Flora's head swung sideways, her ears pricking hopefully. Whenever Wynne made a rare mention of her own experience bearing a child, Flora inevitably sat up and took great notice; desperate to ask questions and seek advice. Yet the senior enchanter – who was still reluctant to share this part of her life – did as she always did after dropping a tantalising hint; spur her horse onwards, outriding the curious stares and Flora's hopeful face.

Alistair felt Flora slump in disappointment against him, weary, aching and vaguely nauseous. He tightened his grip around his wife and kissed the top of her head, pondering inwardly while simultaneously ignoring the serene splendour of Calenhad spread out before him.

These waning days of Solace brought a cool gilded light to their sunsets; a watery gold stippling left in the wake of the sun's descent, muting the usual palette of ochre, crimson and umber. The warmest month of the year was almost over, August in Ferelden tended to bring a gradual decline in temperature as the autumn approached. Thedas' southernmost province did not enjoy the extended summers of the west; Kingsway arrived with a harsh, unforgiving blast of chilly air and a wash of seasonal drizzle. The muted sunset was mirrored across the lake's unruffled surface; marred only by the occasional small island. The main road to the Circle tower followed the contour of the lake, rising and falling with the lay of the land.

Nestled within a small inlet was a compact, two-storey tavern named the _Sword and Scroll _after its position halfway between the Circle and battle-seasoned Redcliffe. It had survived the Blight relatively unscathed, although a lack of travellers and merchants on the roads had cut down on its annual profits. The whole dwelling had an air of gentle neglect about it; several terracotta tiles were missing from its roof, the sign hanging above the door needed re-painting, and one broken window had been hastily boarded up rather than replaced.

Despite this vague dilapidation, it had four solid walls and a reasonably intact roof. More importantly, the smell of cooking meat-pies and roasted game was emanating from a wide-breasted chimney climbing the side of the building.

A red-faced boy with a pock-marked face emerged from the stables as they approached, shortly followed by a cackling girl with straw falling from her blouse.

"Our prices have gone up by a crown, on account o'the Blight," the youth relayed in bored tones, then caught sight of the Theirin and Cousland livery sported by the guards. His eyes swung straight towards Alistair, whose presence was commanding enough even without the band of authority; then dropped to Flora's distinctive, dark red cloud of hair.

"_Bess!" _he hissed in a sudden surge of panic, flailing on the spot like a fish dropped from a bucket. "Bess, get in and tell my dad that we've got guests."

"We always got guests," retorted the obstinate Bess, who was not the brightest.

"_Important _guests," snarled the tavern owner's son, frantically flattening his hair down. "Just go!"

Bess sauntered indolently towards the door, tossing her dark curls and winking at Ser Gilmore.

"The Blight is over," Alistair informed the youth sternly as he dismounted, reaching up immediately to lift Flora down in his wake. "There's no need to inflate prices, especially this far west."

"_Y-y-y-yes, your majesty!" _bleated the youth, scrambling to take the reins. "Of course!"

As the men disappeared into the stables – Alistair and Teagan always checked over their own horses after a long day's ride – Flora shifted from foot to foot and yawned, rubbing a hand over her face. There was a squirming from within her stomach, a wriggling that jostled her organs with unforgiving vigour.

"Please calm yourself," she entreated the little creature – and, unknowingly, it's sibling. "It's the evening. Time to settle down. Have a nap."

Wynne, who was sorting through her pack in search of her journal, glanced sideways towards the plump-bellied queen and something unreadable passed over her face.

"Wynne," Flora spoke up tentatively, after a moment. "When you were with child, did you get gut ache all the time? And heart-burn?"

"I don't remember," the senior enchanter replied, briskly. "Now, shall we work on your literacy while we wait? Come on, quick – how do you spell _Pentaghast?"_

"P, A, N,-" replied a glum Flora, searching her memory for the elusive letters. "P-A-N-T-Y-"

"T-A-G-H-A-S-T," supplied a sympathetic Teagan as he emerged from the stables. "Hasn't the poor girl been tormented enough today, senior enchanter, without spelling tests too?"

The interior of the tavern was rustic and typically Ferelden; the stone walls covered with bits of rusting horse-tack, battered shields and the occasional stuffed hunter's trophy. The tables were covered in ring-marks but otherwise mostly clean, and a hearty fire roared away within a solid, squat hearth. A faded enamel portrait of Maric hung above the bar, which explained how the youth had identified Alistair so quickly.

The tavern owner greeted them with trembling, effusive formality; his entire family lined up alongside him. Teagan stepped forward, politely thanking the man in advance for his hospitality before requesting that they be treated like any other guest – albeit ones paying a fair price, and not an inflated one.

After their packs had been stored on the upper gallery, the company gathered around several round, ale- stained tables. A few other patrons sat huddled in corner booths; eyeing the royal party with surreptitious fascination. Overhead, a candelabra constructed from woven antlers cast a buttery, inconstant light across the flagstones.

The tavern owner had emptied his pantry for the royal company, deploying each member of his family to rustle up the best Fereldan cuisine they could manage. Soon, the tables were straining beneath the weight of bowls and platters. A rich meat broth bubbled away within a small cauldron, great hunks of bread were piled up beside pots of herbed butter. Slices of apples steeped in port-wine were laid out to satisfy the sweet-toothed. A stew of root vegetables had been prepared for especially for the queen.

Flora had perked up immensely at the sight of the food, sitting on the chair at Alistair's right and devouring her way through half of the pot in what seemed like minutes.

"Eating for two!" she justified cheerfully as Zevran giggled and made a comment.

Wynne, overhearing, raised a finely plucked silvery eyebrow.

"_At least _two," she murmured, quiet enough that most did not hear her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Ooohhh this was a fun chapter to write! I wanted a nice light and humorous chapter after the Lothering doom and gloom. I don't know why I'm making people be so mean to Flora when she's tired and miserable, lol. She's not the brightest intellectual in Thedas at the best of times, so baby brain just makes her that bit more susceptible to things like Zevran's 'Grab-a-bag', hahaha.
> 
> So we're nearly back at the Circle! Hopefully with less demons and abominations this time XD


	99. An Evening In The Sword And Scroll

Ser Gilmore, who was seated at the table nearby, caught the gist of the senior enchanter's whispered suggestion. He dropped his spoon into his meat broth, splattering the rich liquid down the front of his Highever-navy tunic.

Soon Flora felt the tell-tale pressure against her bladder once again; gritting her teeth as her biological needs interrupted her eating. As the tavern-keeper's wife showed her where the privy lay, Alistair shot a pointed stare towards one of the guards. In truth the man did not require any instruction; as soon as the queen had heaved herself to her feet, he had risen to follow quietly in her wake. Alistair watched the guard follow at a discreet distance, his head swivelling like an owl.

Once they had disappeared down a side-corridor, the king returned his attention to the table. The others were all preoccupied, either with their food or light-hearted conversation. Zevran was ignoring the winks and pouts of the girl with curly dark hair; she was pretty, but too young for him. The elf, conscious of his own less than salubrious upbringing, had never laid a finger on anyone less than ten-and-eight years.

Teagan and Ser Gilmore were engaged in a game of dice, gambling with the lower stakes of second sons. Teagan was winning, until a lucky toss from the knight had him reclaim the entire pile of silver coins.

Taking advantage of the others' distraction, the king swiftly shuffled his chair across the floorboards until it rested alongside Wynne's. The senior enchanter put down her cup of wine measuredly; her suspicions growing when Alistair turned his most entreating expression on her.

"Why are you gazing at me like a Mabari pup, _your majesty_?" she enquired, sternly.

"I want to ask you a favour!"

"Well, I'm offended that you think myself so susceptible to the charms of a handsome face. You usually save those melting eyes for your wife."

"Well… is it working?" he asked, hopefully.

"Somewhat," Wynne relented a fraction, shaking her head with a slight laugh. "What do you want, Alistair?"

Alistair beamed, then lowered his voice and drew his chair closer. His hazel eyes caught hers, the green flecks standing out like shards of sea-glass. The superficial charm was gone, replaced by earnest purpose.

"I know you don't like to talk about your… your child," he said, apologetically. "And I'm sorry to bring it up. But I think Flo needs to talk to someone about… about what it's like, to bear a child. She has questions that I can't answer, and she worries about things that I don't have the slightest clue about."

Wynne folded her lips together, a shadow darkening her lovely, porcelain-blue eyes. Alistair pressed on, determinedly.

"She's had such a hard time so far with this baby. She's not enjoyed any of it, I don't think. I just want to try and make it easier for her."

The senior enchanter was silent for several long moments, sipping at her wine-cup before speaking.

"Time is a strange thing," she said, very quietly. "I gave birth to my own child nearly three decades ago, and yet the wound in my heart still feels raw. Shouldn't it have healed, at least a little, over the years?"

"I… well. I've known Flo for less than a year, but it feels like we've been together for an Age," Alistair replied, instinctively glancing down at the woven gold band around his ring finger. "So I suppose it can work the other way round, too. A long time ago could feel like yesterday."

"My son's name was… _is_ Rhys."

Wynne's lips had some difficulty forming the word, as though she had not uttered it out loud for many years.

"Rhys," Alistair repeated, swiftly hiding his surprise that the son was referred to in the _present tense. _"That's a good Fereldan name."

Wynne was then quiet for several minutes, gazing down into her wine-cup as though the crimson liquid might hold the answer to some unspoken question.

Finally, she inclined her head and Alistair felt a great rush of relief.

"Of course I can speak to Florence about the bearing and birth of a child, Alistair. It's a perfectly reasonable request, and the poor girl has had to cope with much of it on her own. I'll have a word with her tomorrow."

Alistair beamed, and in defiance of the three days of stubble writ across his face, suddenly appeared younger than his one-and-twenty decades. He made as though to embrace the senior enchanter, and then changed his mind, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder.

Soon after, Flora emerged from the side-corridor, wiping her hands absentmindedly on a square of linen. Alistair hastily shuffled back to his original position, rising to his feet to pull out her chair. She smiled up at him anxiously with smudges of tiredness beneath her eyes; letting him grip her fingers and bring them to his lips.

"I don't know why I keep getting indigestion so much. I don't know if it's… _normal_ or not."

"The baby's body- " Wynne just about restrained herself from using the plural – "is crowding up against your stomach. The same happened to me, child."

Flora gazed at the senior enchanter with such transparent gratitude that Wynne felt a sharp prod of guilt at not sharing her experiences earlier.

As they were finishing their wine-cups, Teagan made a lucky throw that won him the entire game. Letting out a triumphant bark, he raised his arm to summon the serving-maid, declaring that he would purchase every patron in the tavern a fresh round. The serving-maid duly went behind the bar to refill tankards, darting glances at Teagan from the corner of her eye.

Once every cup, glass and stein had been filled to the brim, the serving-maid made a circuit around the tavern; distributing each drink to its grateful owner. Pausing before the king's table, she lowered the tray and then glanced between king, queen and bann.

"I – I don't know if you remember me," she began, hesitantly. "My name is Kaitlyn. I used to live in Redcliffe."

All three immediately gazed up at the woman, who went slightly pink beneath their scrutiny. She appeared only in her late twenties, though the fine lines ingrained on her forehead and at the corners of her eyes suggested a life hard-lived. Roughly-shorn ash blonde hair hung above her shoulders; the ends uneven and in need of attention.

Flora, who had spent only a week within the town in total, did not recognise the careworn young woman. Alistair gazed long and hard at her face, but he had spent most of his time at Redcliffe within the castle rather than down amidst the villagers. Teagan, however, let out a sudden grunt of acknowledgement.

"Beron's daughter," he said, nodding. "The axe-smith. Didn't he have a son too?"

Immediately, the bann cursed his own blunt question – considering the troubles that Redcliffe had been through recently, enquiring about family members was reckless.

Fortunately, Kaitlyn's face lightened, the corner of her mouth twitching upwards in a weary smile.

"Aye, Bevin. He's the reason we're both here, actually. He loves making maps – was drawing his own the moment he could hold a pencil – and Arl Eamon once told my dad about a cartographer who takes apprentices. Lives up in Denerim. So – now the Blight's over and it's safe to travel – we're heading towards the city, one tavern at a time."

Kaitlyn lowered her voice, glancing over her shoulder to ensure that her current employers couldn't overhear her.

"I work for a few weeks, just enough to save up enough coin to travel to the next town. I'm hoping we'll reach Denerim by the time the autumn frost comes."

Flora didn't know what cartography was, but she admired the woman's determination to realise her younger sibling's dream. She smiled up at the serving-maid, wondering what her own brothers were doing at that moment.

"The roads are in reasonable condition," Alistair offered with a nod. "The West Road is intact, it's not been damaged by the Darkspawn. You can restock supplies in South Reach, there's a small outpost set up at the base of the cliff there."

"Thank you, your majesty," Kaitlyn replied, bowing her own ash-blond head. "All knowledge is worth having."

She made as though to leave, and then paused once again; curious eyes sweeping from Alistair to Flora.

"Forgive me if I'm speaking out of turn," the woman said, quietly. "I remember you two when you came to Redcliffe as Wardens. You saved the village from the undead pouring forth from the castle. You know they've built a statue in your honour?"

Flora and Alistair glanced sideways at each other, before turning identical startled expressions on the serving-maid.

"A _statue? _Embarrassing!_"_

"What of?"

Kaitlyn blushed at their attention, clearing her throat.

"A large _creature_ – like the one the Wardens wear on their armour – crushing the enemies of Ferelden underfoot."

Alistair let out a low, amused chuckle, taking a long swig of his ale.

"Perfect. I couldn't think of anything more fitting."

Kaitlyn lifted the empty tray and made as though to leave, glancing over her shoulder to where the tavern-owner was gesticulating behind the bar. Instead of answering his summons, she lingered at the table; another question itching on the tip of her tongue.

"I've heard that you're not Wardens anymore," she said, hesitantly. "That the Maker removed that burden from you as a reward. And the Chantry says that you… you aren't a mage any more, your majesty. Another miracle from the Maker!"

Just like everyone else who had heard the story about how the young Cousland girl had dealt the final blow to the Archdemon; Kaitlyn's eyes slid down to Flora's hands, one resting on her stomach and the other curled around a pewter cup of pear-juice. The white sunburst marks were starkly visible against her creamy complexion; each one extending crooked arcs up to the base of her fingers and down onto her wrists. Similar marks were burnt into her palms, as though the front and back of her hands had been branded with silver flame.

Flora was still not entirely used to having _scars,_ even less for them to be the objects of scrutiny. Although she was accustomed to being stared at – for her looks, for her magic, or for her status – this was a new type of attention; one which she did not quite know how to feel about yet. As she felt the heat of the serving-maid's stare, Flora felt a twinge of self-consciousness deep within her gut. Not knowing why, she curled her fingers into her palms and tucked her hands beneath the table; hiding them from view.

The queen's discomfort over the Archdemon's branding – similar marks were on her hip, thigh, back and shoulder – was blatantly clear. As Kaitlyn returned to the bar, Alistair reached out to retrieve his best friend's hands, his teeth gritted. Lifting them from Flora's lap, he pressed several tender kisses to her fingers. His gaze wandered over the finely-hewn contours of her face; the full, rosy mouth and the limpid grey eyes, solemn and soulful as a Mabari.

"Florence," he murmured, intimate as though they were alone in the room. "Every part of you is _exquisite."_

Flora, slightly mesmerised by his unusual use of her full name, stared at him; pupils expanding to take up the majority of her soft grey irises. He continued to gaze at her, the centres of his own hazel eyes contracting into tiny black dots of focus. As though in a dream, Alistair reached up to touch a strand of thick, oxblood hair as it hung beside her finely hewn cheek. Flora inhaled unsteadily as the back of his calloused finger brushed against her skin, her lips trembling as they parted.

"The Maker broke the mould when He made you," the king continued, in a voice throaty and awed. "My beautiful wife."

The rest of the company sat in awkward silence on the other side of the table, as the newlyweds gazed fixedly at one another. Wynne leaned over, directing a whisper into Zevran's ear.

"It's a pity that dear Leliana isn't here. She laps this sort of thing up."

Zevran, who had preoccupied himself with sorting a pack of Wicked Grace cards into suits, let out an ambiguous grunt in response.

Abruptly and without warning, Alistair reached down and lifted his wife into his arms; his eyes not leaving her face. There was simply no time for him to offer any brief words of explanation to the rest of the company – before Wynne's eyebrows had met her hairline, he was striding off towards the stairs that led to the upper gallery. His boots echoed against the wooden steps as he ascended them with admirable haste considering his _not-inconsiderable _burden; moments later, a bedchamber door slammed behind king and queen with a resonant thud.

"Well, the lad is remarkably strong," commented Teagan at last, to break the silence. "She's a hefty little creature with that belly on her."

Wynne retired to bed shortly afterwards – mostly to ensure that she could claim a room as far away from the currently-occupied one as possible. The other patrons of the tavern began to drift away, venturing out into a surprisingly cool Solace night. A quarter-moon was emerging from behind a sheer veil of silver cloud; a near-perfect replica of the sky cast across the still surface of Lake Calenhad below.

Within the _Sword and Scroll, _the tavern owner went around to extinguish the candles, mindful of their costly wax. The lower floor was now lit solely by the great hearth, which cast a flickering, sunset-hued glow across the white plastered walls.

Leaning back against his chair, Teagan peered at the woman from Redcliffe with an appraising eye; sliding an extra silver coin across the table when she came to collect the empties. When Kaitlyn blushed and stammered her thanks, the bann bestowed upon her the smile that had won him a certain_ reputation_ back in Ostwick.

Zevran, who had briefly ventured upstairs to retrieve some conditioning oil for his blade, slid back into the chair beside Teagan with a sigh.

"I think you're in luck with our serving-wench," he commented, lightly. "I'd close the deal sooner rather than later, or someone might poach your prize."

The bann snorted, draining his tankard and placing it on the table with a slightly unsteady hand.

"Are they _shtill- _still at it?" he enquired, tilting his chin in the direction of the chambers that branched off the upper gallery. "Our enamoured young newlyweds."

The elf smiled, the firelight adding a warm lustre to his richly-hued skin. His teeth flashed bright in the gloom, one crooked incisor lending his grin a distinctly piratical air.

"_Ah, sí. _From what I heard through the door, they're _role-playing _now," he murmured, with transparent delight_. "Ser-Grab-a-lot _and his prey. Rather charmingly, our queen appears to have taken the role of _Ser-Grab-a-lot. _I don't know if that makes Alistair one of the forty seven goats?"

Teagan let out a deep belly-chuckle that echoed about the wooden rafters, eyeing the elf appreciatively.

"Ha!"

Some time later, up in the tavern's largest guest bedchamber, Flora and Alistair lay amidst tangled blankets. Both of them were perspiring and recovering their breath; her cheeks were bright pink and a vein pulsed insistently in his neck. Blindly, the king reached out a limp arm, a weary smile rising as he felt his plump-bellied queen roll against his side.

"Are you alright, sweetheart? That wasn't too… too much?"

"It's always_ too much_ with you," Flora croaked, patting her fingers against his damp chest to hear the wet sound of their colliding skin. "But in the _best possible way."_

Alistair pressed a kiss to the top of her head, smiling to himself as he gazed up at the white-plastered ceiling. Even the tavern's 'grandest' room was not especially refined; exposed wooden beams ran across its length, and there was little in the way of décor. This suited the king more than well, since he shared his father's preference for simple, rustic interiors. The bed – always the most important part of the room – was comfortable enough, a rag-stuffed mattress overspilling with embroidered blankets.

"Are you looking forward to going back to the Circle, my love?" he asked eventually, stroking his thumb down the curve of her naked back. "We should be there by tomorrow evening."

"Eeh…"

Flora grimaced against the firm muscle of his chest, and the hesitation before her reply drew Alistair's attention.

"Darling?"

"I didn't enjoy my four years there," his former mage replied, in a small and thoughtful voice. "I missed Herring, and nobody liked me very much."

Sensing that Flora had not yet finished Alistair said nothing, but tightened his grip on her while gritting his teeth slightly.

"The instructors said that I was lazy," she offered by way of explanation, shrugging her shoulders. "Because I couldn't read or write, and I couldn't learn magic. And they'd never heard of someone who could only channel one type of energy. They thought I wasn't trying. The other students just thought I was useless."

Alistair pressed another, fiercer kiss to the top of her head, nuzzling his face into her mop of sweaty hair. His wife's body felt suddenly cold against him and he drew up the blankets over them, embracing her more tightly.

"They called you the _Vase," _he said, recalling the nickname she had once told him.

_A lovely exterior; nothing of value inside._

Flora nodded, comforted by the strong, steady rhythm of her husband's heartbeat against her cheek. For a moment they lay in companionable silence, sweaty limbs entangled beneath the mess of woollen blankets. An owl gave a long, melancholy cry from outside, receiving an answering hoot shortly afterwards.

"Don't you want to go back there and… I don't know… _gloat _a little?" Alistair offered eventually, while knowing perfectly well that his wife was not the type to do so. "You _did _kill the Archdemon and end the Blight, after all. Your magic was instrumental to that. You're the Hero of Ferelden."

"My _spirits_ killed the Archdemon," Flora corrected, in a small voice. "And now I have no magic at all. They aren't going to think I'm any _more useful _because of it, are they? Now I really am just _the vase."_

_Having my spirits with me was what made the Circle tolerable. They kept me company for four years when everyone else thought I was ignorant, and ignored me. It's going to feel so strange to return there without them._

There was so much illogicality displayed within these few sentences that Alistair's jaw dropped, incredulous eyebrows rising. He tilted her chin up so that she had no choice but to look at him.

"There's no value that can be placed on you, my love," he breathed, pressing his lips to her forehead, her nose and her cheeks in rapid succession. "I don't care how much knowledge and learning they have, they're _fools _if they don't see the worth in you. I think you're _priceless."_

Flora rolled over awkwardly onto her side - feeling a little like a beached whale - and propped herself on an elbow; gazing down at her husband as he sprawled on the mattress beside her. It had not escaped the queen that her husband had been over-effusive with his compliments ever since she had woken up _without_ her spirits. Alistair, aware that his wife's self-esteem and confidence had been built on the foundation of her magical abilities, made sure to liberally praise her at every possible opportunity.

_You sing my magic-less worth to the skies, _Flora thought to herself, with a sudden surge of affection. _You praise me far more now than when I had the power of two incalculably-strong spirits at my fingertips. My kind-hearted brother-warden… former._

"Your opinion matters more to me than the judgement of all the mages in Thedas," she breathed, tracing the curvature of his broad pectoral muscle with a finger. "I love you more deeper – _more deeply - _than the ocean."

Alistair grinned up at his wife, reaching out to stroke a hand over the top of her head.

"My love," he murmured, stifling a yawn. "I couldn't even begin to _measure_ how I feel about you. There aren't numbers to quantify it."

Flora opened her mouth to respond, and then let out a startled squeak as something knocked into the wall behind the bed.

"Aah!"

"_Maker's Breath,"_ Alistair yelped, sitting up and twisting around in the blankets. "What was that?"

Within moments, the knocking started up again; the distinctive percussive thud of a headboard colliding rhythmically with the wall. Flakes of dislodged plaster drifted down from the ceiling like snow, landing on the blankets.

Flora and Alistair gazed at one another, wide-eyed. The king let out a slightly embarrassed bark of laughter, aware that they were usually the _cause _of such noises, rather than the audience.

"Is that Zevran? Who do you reckon he's convinced to join him, one of the scouts?"

Flora shook her head, stifling a cackle behind her fingers.

"Zevran's room is across the hall, and the scouts are in the back passage," she replied, solemnly. "That's Bann Teagan's chamber."

Alistair's face contorted almost comically in dismay and he sunk down against the pillows, putting his fingers against his ears.

"Ah, _Maker's- _that's my _uncle_! Or, as good as. I don't want to hear this!"

He hid his head beneath the blankets with a muffled groan. Flora eyed him, tempted to point out that Teagan had been forced to listen to _them _through thin canvas walls for the past few weeks.

As though determined to escape the sound of his uncle and his mysterious partner, Alistair fell asleep soon afterwards. Flora, soothed by the reassuring rumble of his snores, followed rapidly in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol, Alistair calling Flora Florence when he's being heartfelt is my new aesthetic! Speaking of eavesdropping through doors, can't you just imagine the guards posted outside their door making gagging noises as the star-crossed lovers tell each other how amazing they are? Hahaha, it's sweet, though.
> 
> Poor old Flora getting self-conscious about the marks left by the Archdemon on her body – she's not used to having scars or war-wounds, since her spirits used to automatically mend any marks and blemishes!


	100. Peppermint Tea And Promises

The tavern gradually settled down for the night, cloaked in a translucent veil of shadow. Lake Calenhad stretched out like a vast, still mirror at the building's edge; a great inland sea that reached for almost sixty miles. Just about visible on a distant shore was the blazing pinnacle of the Circle Tower, a beacon that stood at the lake's northernmost tip.

On the upper gallery of the _Sword and Scroll_, the Mabari hounds yawned as they lay outside the king and queen's guest-chamber; with one ear pricked even in sleep. In their own bedroom, the tavern-keeper and his wife conversed in soft, excitable tones, still in disbelief that the royal company had chosen _their _establishment to stop at. If Alistair had not commented sternly about the artificial inflation of costs to their son earlier, the couple would have doubled their prices.

As the night reached its apex, a single figure sat alone at a table downstairs, nursing a tankard of ale while gazing mindlessly into thin air. His shirt was only half-buttoned and stubble lined his face; he had the look of a man come newly from amorous congress.

Teagan finished the ale with a long gulp, wiping stray flecks of foam from his auburn goatee. A flicker of movement caught his eye and one hand went reflexively to the dagger he kept at his belt. No true Fereldan noble was ever caught entirely defenceless, even fresh from the bedchamber.

As his vision clarified around the movement, he inhaled and removed his hand swiftly; rising to his feet from the chair.

"Please don't stab me," said Flora amiably, descending the last step from the upper gallery. One of the Mabari padded silently in her wake, yawning and snapping its jaws at a stray spark from the fire.

"Never, poppet," the bann reassured her, one brow rising. "Is everything all right?"

Flora nodded, waving something small, pale and square in his direction as she approached barefoot across the flagstones. She was clad in the ugly mustard-coloured dressing robe from the Royal Palace; the warm and utterly charmless garment reminded her of Herring, and she was fond of it.

"I've got _indigestion_," the queen informed him, with an incongruous toothy grin. "I can't sleep."

Teagan blinked for a moment, wondering at the cheerfulness that accompanied such a confession.

"And you're… _happy _about this?" he asked, slightly bemused.

Flora came to a halt on the other side of the table, her slight figure in juxtaposition to the high, rounded swell of her stomach. It jutted out before her like the prow of a ship, tenting the mustard-coloured wool. She showed him the pouch in her hand – it was a small, woven herb-bag with a handwritten label sewn onto it.

"It gives me an excuse to have a tea that I _really like,"_ Flora confessed, unable to stop herself from beaming. "Peppermint. The midwife gave it to me for indigestion. It's the only one that doesn't taste like stewed grass. Leliana says that I don't have a very refined pa- _pallat_ – plat- pellet… _mouth."_

Teagan smiled at her, reaching out to take the woven pouch.

"Sit down and rest, petal. I'll make it for you."

As Flora hovered - uncertain whether or not to accept his kindness - the bann took matters into his own hands. He reached out and took the woven pouch from her fingers, heading towards the open hearth.

"You know, you don't _need_ an excuse to have peppermint tea if you like it," he said over his shoulder, pouring water from a flagon into a small copper kettle. "You could have it all the time. When Isolde was expecting Connor, she demanded fresh Antivan bananas for breakfast every day. Eamon practically needed to open a new trade route."

"Oh, no!" Flora breathed, alarmed. "That would be _extravagant. _But…" here she smiled, taking a seat at the table. "I do get indigestion _a lot."_

The queen fiddled with a loose strand of wool in her sleeve as Teagan prepared the water. The bann was not quite as efficient at setting up the kettle above the flames as she would have been – it was clear that this would usually be a task delegated to servants. Eventually, after some mild cursing, he managed to manoeuvre the apparatus into place; jabbing a poker into the spitting coals before tossing on another log.

Flora propped her chin in her hand, stifling a yawn as she watched him. Once the younger of the Guerrin brothers had finished setting up the kettle, he returned to sit in the chair beside her with a long exhalation. The next moment, remembering his dishevelled and post-coital state, he coughed and hastily fastened several buttons at the front of his shirt.

They were silent for several moments, listening to the soft hiss and crackle of the fire as it rumbled away in the hearth. Teagan, despite his inward resolve, found his eyes sliding sideways to the girl sitting at his right. Flora was slumped in the chair with a casualness that was a legacy of _Herring_ rather than _Highever_; more concerned with finding a comfortable position for her occupied belly than with appearing decorous. Despite the lurid hideousness of the dressing gown, the bruised tiredness beneath her eyes and the un-brushed ropes of dark red that hung loose to her waist; there was a full-lipped, languid beauty about her that seemed almost archaic, like a siren from some Fereldan legend.

"I could eat _all_ the fish in Lake Calenhad," Flora announced, spoiling the illusion. "I want to go swimming with my mouth open and just… just _inhale _them."

The bann laughed, feeling some of the odd tension within him drain away. He refilled his own tankard, splashing several drops of ale over the wood.

"Do you think Alistair would let me go swimming?" Flora continued, propping her bare toes on her bound knee and inspecting the grubby soles of her feet. "Probably not."

"Aye, probably not," agreed Teagan gravely, taking several deep gulps of ale.

Flora raised her gaze to a small, enamel portrait of Maric that was nailed to a beam above the bar. The old king's faded features were handsome, ascetic and finely-hewn; Flora realised with a start that this would most likely be how Alistair would look in decades to come.

"Alistair'll be sporting grey hairs and wrinkles by the time he's thirty if you keep sneaking off to ruined villages at night. Or burning down Chantries," murmured the observant bann, his words echoed within his flagon. "Or suggesting midnight swims while heavy with child."

_Or, children, _Teagan thought to himself, recalling Wynne's hypothesis. _What a blessing if there were two._

"_Sneaking?! _I didn't '_sneak' _off to Lothering," an indignant Flora retorted, conveniently forgetting how she had slithered out beneath the wall of the tent to avoid rousing anyone. "I walked. I didn't _sneak. _I'm not a _gribble worm."_

"A gribble worm?" replied the bann, stifling a smile.

"The _sneakiest _of sea-creatures," Flora intoned, fixing wide, limpid eyes on him. "They eat up jetties with _little_ _tiny teeth."_

"Is that right, pet?"

"Mm!"

Teagan knew that he was allowing himself to become disarmed by the queen's innocuous, peculiar and oddly beguiling manner of charm. Clearing his throat, he summoned back his earlier resolve.

"_Anyway_. Do you think you can restrain yourself from embarking upon these… nocturnal adventures? Until the babies - _babe _is born, at least."

The bann held his breath, wondering if Flora had caught his slip of the tongue. She did not react to it, but appeared to be listening so he pressed home the advantage.

"It would _kill_ Alistair if anything happened to you, poppet. He was a man broken when you lay insensible after slaying the Archdemon. I don't think he'd be in any fit state to rule."

As Teagan had suspected, this angle of argument made far more of an impression on Flora. After a moment's reflection she gave a grave nod, settling her fingers solemnly on top of her breast.

"Alright, I swear," she replied, solemnly. "I won't leave camp – or wherever we're staying – at night on my own any more. I promise to always wake someone up."

The water within the copper kettle began to boil, and the bann rose to his feet. Flora felt a squirming inside her stomach and shifted in the chair to accommodate it, watching Teagan carefully remove the kettle from the hook. Using a cloth to protect his fingers from the handle, he carried it over to the table.

As the bann busied himself with kettle, cup and aromatic peppermint leaves, Flora lifted her eyes once again to the solemn portrait of Maric; his hawklike Theirin gaze staring out sightlessly across the tavern.

After several moments, Teagan slid the steaming cup across the table towards her. With a single quick glance, Flora realised that the younger Guerrin – who possessed little experience making herbal tea – had mixed the leaves freely with the hot water; as though expecting them to dissolve into the contents of the cup.

"Thank you," she breathed earnestly, making no mention of the bann's mistake as she took the vessel. "It smells so nice. I love it."

"I put some cold water in it too," Teagan added, wryly. "I don't want to risk incurring Alistair's wrath by burning his bride's tongue."

Although he had not intended for his words to carry a bawdy implication, they emerged with one nonetheless. The bann coughed to hide his embarrassment, taking too-large a gulp of ale.

Flora peered at him curiously over the rim of the cup, and then smiled.

"Thank you," she repeated, wondering if she could use her teeth as a filter to stop herself from ending up with a mouthful of leaves.

Teagan drained his tankard, the muscles in his throat working as he swallowed. One of the Mabari appeared at the top of the stairs to investigate the whereabouts of its kennel-mate. On seeing that both hound and queen were seated at the table, the dog returned to its original position lying across the king's doorway.

Flora took a tentative sip of tea, feeling the leaves brushing against her teeth. The bann was watching her closely, irrationally anxious.

"Is it alright, pet?" he asked, in an abrupt manner that reminded her of Leonas Bryland.

"It's delicious!" the kind Flora replied immediately, taking several valiant gulps and making herself swallow the tea, leaves and all. "Thank you!"

In the distance, a small Chantry chapel nestled between two hills rung out the hour; a single peal to mark the start of a new day. Flora felt an inward shiver – recalling the bells of lost Lothering – and lifted her gaze towards the bann, Maric's portrait catching her eye once more.

"What was your sister like?" she asked, impulsively. "Queen Rowan."

A wistful flicker passed across Teagan's handsome, prematurely lined face; quick as the sun briefly emerging from a miasma of Herring cloud. When he spoke, his voice was distant, summoning the memory of a sister who had died over two decades prior.

"She was headstrong," he said, quiet and wry. "She bossed myself and Eamon around like a harpy when we were boys. We were terrified and awed by her in equal measure, especially when she ran off to join the rebellion against Orlais."

"Is that where she met Maric?" Flora asked, recalling a painting of the royal couple hanging near the staircase leading up to the palace's Royal quarters. The queen had been plump-bellied with Cailan while Maric had been proud and beaming; one hand on her shoulder and the other on the hilt of his sword.

"Aye, but Maric was already besotted with an elf lass," Teagan replied, summoning memories of events that he had learnt about through letter while residing in the Marches. "It was Loghain whom my sister loved first. The two grew close in the Deep Roads – Maker knows why they had even ventured down there. I think she bore a love for him for the rest of her life, to be honest."

Flora blinked, bemused. She had heard rumours to this effect before, but found it hard to picture the eternally scowling Loghain Mac Tir in the role of _star-crossed lover._

_But, if he lost Rowan and then –later - his wife, I'm not surprised that he's dour, _she thought to herself, suddenly. _If I lost Alistair, I don't think I would ever smile again._

"Rowan was a beautiful woman," Teagan continued, soft and fond. "Stood as tall as a man, but slender as a willow. Brown hair – like Eamon's, before he lost the colour. And grey eyes, like the shallows of the tide. Like yours, poppet. I think that's why Loghain always had a soft spot for you."

Flora was about to protest, but then remembered a certain flickering hearth within a traitorous arl's bedchamber.

_When I was Rendon Howe's prisoner and masquerading as a Tranquil, Loghain came to see me. We stood before the hearth and he told me about how his mother was raped and murdered by Orlesian chev- chavs- chevels – knights. And I couldn't help but let my sympathy show in my gaze, and he saw it. He tilted my chin up and looked right into my eyes, and he _knew_ that I wasn't really Tranquil. And he didn't tell Howe. In fact, he told Howe to take the magic-restricting collar off._

"I'm grateful for it," Flora replied, biting back her indignation. "Otherwise I'd have been- _ugh."_

Life as Howe's Tranquilised puppet-wife did not bear thinking about, and so she put the thought firmly from her head.

"Teagan?"

The voice drifted down from the upper gallery, pointed and enquiring. The Mabari lying across Flora's feet beneath the table immediately raised its head; ears pricking upwards at the unfamiliar tone. The bann, feeling an irrational surge of guilt, lifted his gaze to where the serving-maid Kaitlyn was perched at the bannister.

"Teagan, are you coming back to bed?" she called down in a low voice, clutching his tunic around her shoulders.

"Aye, soon," the bann replied, hastily. "I won't leave Flor -_ the_ _queen_ downstairs on her own."

After a few moments, Flora realised that he was waiting for her to finish her 'tea', which in actuality was a mass of soggy peppermint leaves stewing at the bottom of her cup. Quailing inwardly, she lifted the metal rim to her lips and swallowed the pulpy, pungent remnants; eyes watering.

"Don't rush, petal," the bann advised, watching her throat contract.

"I'm enjoying every mouthful," the gracious queen replied, sweetly and wholly untruthful. "It was kind of you to make it for me."

After Flora had ingested the last bitter gulp, she put down the cup with an unsteady hand, wondering if she might actually be sick. Once she had established that this was unlikely, she put an impulsive arm around the bann's neck and kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you," she repeated, recalling his earlier gentle chiding and concern for her wellbeing. "I appreciate it. See you in the morning."

"Goodnight, poppet."

The Mabari – along with Kaitlyn's pointed stare – followed Flora back up the steps to the upper gallery; although the queen was not aware of the latter. She made her way down the corridor, extracting fragments of peppermint from her teeth with a fingernail. The other hound, lying across Alistair's doorway, gave a little snort of greeting as the bearer of the Theirin progeny approached; rolling to one side to allow Flora entrance.

The chamber was cloaked in shadow, one silvery channel of moonlight penetrating through a gap in the shutters to illuminate the bed. To Flora's relief, Alistair still lay snoring on the mattress, his bare, muscled torso cast in silver by the nocturnal light.

Abandoning the mustard-wool dressing robe on the floorboards, she clambered onto the bed, reaching out to wrap Alistair's arm around her waist. Half-asleep, her husband drew her against his side while reaching for her hand; their fingers twining together.

"My sweet girl," Alistair mumbled sleepily into her hair. "Privy again?"

"No," she replied, prying a peppermint leaf from the roof of her mouth with her tongue. "I had indigestion. Bann Teagan made me some tea."

The king kissed his queen's ear, nuzzling his face against her neck.

"Mm, poor baby. Do you feel any better now, my love?"

When she gave a little grunt of confirmation, he tightened his grip around her waist; strong thumbs kneading into the aching base of her spine.

"Good. Try and get some sleep now, darling. You can have as much of a lie-in as you need, I'll make sure that no one wakes you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Ooooohhh you know what they say about the best way to get over someone, is getting your leg over someone else? Well, Teagan just put that to the test! I'm not sure how successful he's been though, lol. Anyway, at least he's got Flora to promise to stop wandering off in the middle of the night!
> 
> I wanted to bring up a bit of Rowan since I actually bought some of the DA novels on my Kindle! I haven't got round to reading them yet, but I've read all the wikia articles (haha what an excuse!).
> 
> Poor old Flo, ending up with a mouthful of leaves! Teagan doesn't know how to make tea lol.


	101. The Battle Of River Dane

The next morning dawned bright and hopeful, the sunlight illuminating the surface of Lake Calenhad like a sheet of glass. The sky was an uninterrupted swathe of periwinkle, the air so clear that they could see the distant violet smudge of the Frostbacks far to the west. The road to the Circle ran north, following the curve and contour of the lake; the parallel-running River Dane lying several miles to its east.

The Royal company paid their bills to the awed tavern keeper, who had brought his entire family and serving staff out to see them off. Alistair insisted on paying the man full price for the food and for the rooms, with a quiet, stern reminder that rates ought not to be inflated in the wake of the Blight. As the horses and carts were prepared for the off, the sharp-eyed former Crow noticed Teagan slipping a surreptitious bag of coin to the pretty, faded serving woman. Grinning, Zevran mentally tucked this nugget of knowledge away for later; swinging himself up onto the saddle with athletic ease.

They set out north on the lake road before the chapel bell had tolled the ninth hour. The birds that dwelt near the shores of Calenhad – cormorants, herons and sandpipers – were in full chorus, sensing the last waning weeks of summer. In a few days, Solace would be over and August would be upon them. In the majority of Thedas, August was the most humid month of the year, but in Ferelden, it was a time of seasonal transition. The leaves began to fade, the evenings drew in with a new chill and dawn arrived accompanied by rain-clouds more often than not.

The company made good time on the northern road, which was kept in excellent condition. The contrast between the thoroughfares in the untouched west and Blighted east of Ferelden was stark. Alistair resolved to create a committee specifically dedicated to the maintenance and rebuilding of roadways once he returned to Denerim.

"An excellent idea," Wynne interjected, overhearing the king sharing his idea with Flora. "Roads are the arteries and veins of a country, through which its worth and well-being circulate. If they are damaged, then the health of the nation suffers."

Alistair grinned – he had known already that it was a good idea, but appreciated the senior enchanter's approval.

"You could employ some of the new surface dwarves," a yawning Flora added, thinking on those that had not desired to return to a life underground in Orzammar after the final battle. "They're good at engineering, and they want to travel."

Alistair nodded, sitting up straighter on the saddle and pressing a kiss to the back of her head.

"That's a great suggestion, Lo," he murmured, pleased that she had woken up. "How are you feeling, my love?"

Flora had dozed most of the morning slumped against his chest, her energy drained by the residents of her stomach.

"Good," she replied, wondering if she still had peppermint in her teeth from Bann Teagan's tea. "Where are we?"

Teagan, who had the map, nudged his horse forward to ride alongside them. Unfolding the parchment, he pointed a finger towards a small inlet on the lake's eastern coast, about two-thirds of the way up.

"Just here, poppet."

As the bann started to tuck the map away once again, Zevran cleared his throat with a faintly malicious edge; his dark Antivan eyes glittering like hot coals.

"It must have been a good night, Bann Teagan."

"Eh?"

"To warrant such a _hefty _bag of coin placed into the lady Kaitlyn's hands this morning."

Alistair and Flora simultaneously turned astonished eyes on the bann. Teagan now had a crimson flush creeping upwards from his collar; a shade which clashed with the auburn of his neatly trimmed goatee.

"I didn't pay her for - ah – _that _nature of service,"the younger Guerrin insisted, restraining himself from adding that he never needed to _purchase _the company of a woman. "I felt sorry for her and her brother, so I paid her coin enough to get to Denerim. She joined me in the bedchamber without expectation of recompense. Sorry, ladies."

Flora beamed blithely at him, while Wynne rolled her eyes; a woman advanced sufficient in years to be shocked by very little.

The company rode on for several hours before pausing for lunch beside one of the many branching tributaries that fed into Calenhad from the River Dane. The river itself was visible to the east, a silver ribbon that snaked its way leisurely across the flood plains. Several dozen acres of peaceful, grassy land stretched out alongside the river; reeds growing in thick, bristled clumps at its shoreline.

"Do you notice anything unusual about the trees down on the plain?" Wynne asked suddenly, as the company was just finishing their hunks of buttered bread and cheese.

Those seated on the grass near the senior enchanter looked down at the marshy plains, their gaze moving from trunk to slender trunk. Flora and Alistair both looked nonplussed, while even the sharp-eyed Zevran seemed at a loss. Like all good teachers, Wynne never gave away an answer too freely.

"They're all young trees," Ser Gilmore offered, after the pause stretched out into a prolonged silence. "On the plains."

The old mage nodded, the corner of her lips curling upwards into a smile.

"They're all less than thirty years old."

Teagan, returning from attending to a stone in his horse's hoof, grasped Wynne's point far more swiftly; having received instruction in Fereldan history from childhood.

"No trees would have survived the battle that took place here at the close of the last Age," the bann explained, lowering himself to the grass beside Ser Gilmore. "The Battle of the River Dane."

A flicker of recognition passed across Alistair's face – this battle was a cornerstone of Fereldan legend, and one that he recalled Eamon recanting several times; usually while half-inebriated. It was one of the most fundamental facets of the rebellion that had won the province independence from the Empire.

"This was where Loghain Mac Tir's forces ambushed the Orlesian chevaliers," the king recalled, retrieving the story from the depths of his memory. "Two legions of the Emperor's troops were wiped out here."

"How many soldiers are there in a legion?" Flora asked, unfamiliar with the story.

"Two thousand a piece," Teagan said, a note of residual pride filtering through the reply. "It was a slaughter."

Flora grimaced inwardly, aware that a queen of Ferelden could not be seen to publicly show sympathy for the Imperial oppressors. She swivelled her head away from the deceptively innocuous grasslands, letting her gaze settle on the far more pleasing Lake Calenhad.

Alistair was also staring hard at the verdant plain, though not for the purpose of patriotic recollection. Instead, he was thinking of a desolate and muddied wasteland, carved raggedly by trenches and gullies, and pitted by the discharge of siege weaponry.

"There's hope for the Alamarri plains, then," he said at last. "Perhaps they'll recover too, given enough time."

Flora, who still found it painful to look upon the Alamarri plains whenever they rode in and out of Denerim, brightened at the prospect. Both king and queen turned hopefully to Wynne, whom they regarded as the member of the company possessing the greatest quantity of wisdom.

"Oh, I think so," the senior enchanter said, softly. "I think Ferelden's land is as resilient as its people. Thanks to you two, the Blight swept across the land for a year – it didn't have time to properly take hold."

As always, whenever anybody made reference to the former Wardens' gathering of the armies, both of them looked vaguely sheepish and directed their gazes elsewhere.

"What happens to the land when the Blight's properly set in, then?" asked Flora, in an attempt to divert attention from themselves. "Does it turn into a… a swamp? A puddle?"

"A _puddle?" _repeated Wynne, shaking her head incredulously. _"No,_ Florence. Have you ever heard of a region named the Western Approach?"

Flora grimaced, she had never studied any form of geography. She knew that Orlais lay beyond the Frostbacks, and that the Marches were across the Waking Sea; but all other nations within Thedas lay in some great, nebulous _elsewhere _that she could not quite articulate.

"It's in Orlais, isn't it?" Alistair offered, having once noted the region on a map. "In the south of the country."

Wynne nodded, casting an eye across the peaceful plains where nearly four thousand men had met their deaths thirty years earlier.

"The Darkspawn swarmed it during the Second Blight. They came surging up from a great crack in the ground and poisoned the land beyond repair. The soil crumbled away into nothingness, leaving only sand and the bare bones of rock behind. It's nothing more than a desert now."

Alistair grimaced, picturing Ferelden succumbing to a similar fate. Zevran reached across and tapped slender, tattooed fingers gently across the king's leather boot.

"But that is not the case this time, hm? Your land is in bloom, and your wife is plump with fecundity."

Flora, overhearing only the last part, widened her eyes accusatorially.

"Did you call me – did you call me _fat?"_

The elf mirrored her indignation, his own dark pupils expanding.

"_Mi sirenita! _Of course not. You are ripening _beautifully, mi pequeño melocotón. _I could devour you in a single gulp!"

As they continued to follow the road north alongside the lake, the River Dane gradually receded into the eastern horizon, lost amidst the hills of the bannorn. The afternoon began to wane, the dimming of the light indicating that sunset was close at hand. The company had just crossed one of the many small tributary streams that fed into the almighty Calenhad, when a series of small islands came into view in the centre of the lake.

Teagan, unfolding the map once again, identified them as an uninhabited cluster of landforms colloquially known as the _Seven Sisters_. There were a number of local legends from Redcliffe involving the islands – the most common story suggested that Calenhad had exiled all seven of his sisters to the middle of the lake when one of them had an affair with a rival clansman. This was highly unlikely, since Chantry historians were relatively certain that Calenhad had possessed no siblings, let alone seven sisters.

The silhouette of the Circle Tower – high and angular, with multiple jutting buttresses and supporting struts – was visible on its own larger island to the north, reachable only by boat. Flora had recognised the distinctive outline of the _Seven Sisters _before anyone else, though she was used to seeing them from a far loftier perspective. As an apprentice, she had spent much of her time devising ways to sneak up onto the tower's flat roof, although she tended to choose the northern face rather than the southern.

Despite recognising the islands, Flora had not said anything to the others – in fact, she had said very little for the past few hours. Since the queen was not a great conversationalist at the best of times, her quietness went unnoticed by most. Only Alistair, who could read his wife's subtle mannerisms and nonverbal cues like a plainly-writ letter, had realised that she had fallen into a glum silence after that first glimpse of the Circle.

He recalled Flora's quiet confession in the tavern the previous evening; that she was not looking forward to returning to her past home. Within the lofty heights of Kinloch Hold, she had been labelled both ignorant and incompetent, subjected to endless cruel jibes about her limited ability, and casually mocked for her commoner's accent. Ironically enough, it had been her fellow mages responsible for much of the taunting – the Templars viewed her as barely one step up from a Tranquil, and left her in peace. Her remarkable talents - the impenetrable shield, the exquisitely delicate healing - remained hidden; since there was no need for them in the cocooned environment of the Circle.

Now – despite the fact that she would be returning both as the widely lauded Hero of Ferelden_ and _the nation's new queen – Flora felt at once fraudulent and doubly incompetent. As the Circle tower loomed larger with each passing hour, she felt her stomach begin to churn.

Alistair, attuned to his wife with especial sensitivity, was aware of her discomfort and could guess at the cause. He had not attempted to reassure her with words, knowing that they would serve no purpose – he could tell her nothing that she did not already know. Instead, he had pressed his lips to the back of her head; stroked her be-ringed fingers with his leather clad hand; nuzzled his face surreptitiously into her neck when nobody else was looking.

Flora appreciated each tender touch and caress, grateful for her husband's comfort. Determinedly, she closed her eyes and relaxed into his arms, recalling the year's accomplishments in her head.

_Alistair and I gathered an army._

_We won the support of the Landsmeet._

_I killed the Archdemon. Or, at least, my spirits did._

_Surely that has to balance out never passing any classes? My inability to light a candle after four years of tutelage?_

_Are they still going to call me the Vase? Surely not. At least, not to my face._

Shortly before they reached the Calenhad docks, the company stopped in a small tavern; both to water the horses and to allow the royal couple to wash and dress themselves in more suitable attire. Unlike the informal stops at South Reach and Lothering, the first visit of a new king to the Circle tower was a necessarily official occasion. The First Enchanter would officially pledge the loyalty of Ferelden's mages to the crown, witnessed by the Templars and several local banns. The rest of the company waited in the lower rooms of the tavern as king and queen prepared themselves in an upstairs chamber.

Gazing into a smeared mirror above the hearth, Alistair - whose jaw was covered in thin, dense gilded growth - took out his shaving blade for the first time in a fortnight.

"I was just beginning to cultivate my face too," he commented wistfully, testing the sharpness of the blade with a finger. "I'll never grow a beard like Eamon's."

Flora, who was seated in her smalls on the patchwork bed covering, gave a distracted grunt in response. She was preoccupied with trying to wrench a comb through thick strands of hair, which fell to her waist in a smouldering, tangled mass of dark red.

"Me neither," she offered and Alistair snorted, shooting her a fond glance in the mirror.

"You know, I've heard that dwarven women can grow beards. But I don't remember seeing any in Orzammar, do you?"

Flora let go of the brush, leaving it suspended in her tangle of hair as she recalled their week spent in the subterranean depths. Eventually she shook her head, pulling a small face.

"I don't think so. The barmaid at Tapster's didn't have a beard. Nor did any of the lady deshyr. Don't they have tattoos on their faces? Maybe that stops the hair from growing."

"The only ones with tattoos on their faces are the ones from the Legion of the Dead," corrected Alistair, smoothing down the errant tuft of hair at the front of his head with sandalwood oil. "Do you think that's why Zevran doesn't have any hair on his face? I've never seen the man shave."

Flora shrugged, realising that her hair was as neat as it was ever going to be. After weaving the front strands into a knot at the nape of her neck, she began to rummage through the pack that Leliana had labelled 'FORMAL OUTFITS' in clearly readable letters.

"His tattoos are only on his cheeks," she replied, pulling a face at a raspberry coloured silk gown that Leliana _must _have included as a jest. "Not on his chin. Maybe elves don't grow facial hair as easily as humans? I don't know what to wear. Leliana isn't here to dress me!"

Alistair, who did not have a mass of uncooperative hair to wrangle, had already manoeuvred himself into a fur-edged tunic. After buttoning up the front with deft, sword-callused fingers, he went to assist his wife.

"What about this, baby?" he suggested, pulling up a tunic of rich forest-green lambswool, edged with gold stitching on the sleeves. "I don't think I've ever seen you in _green_ before, and you can wear your calfskin breeches and boots with it."

Flora, who could not care less what she wore, gave a placid nod of acquiescence. Once they had tightened the laces, and she had located the bottom half of the outfit, she stood before the mirror and eyed her reflection. They had been on progress for almost a month, and yet she had rapidly grown accustomed to the travel clothes, the casually tied back hair and the lack of ornamentation. This harkened back to when they had been travelling around Ferelden gathering their armies; she had worn whatever had emerged first from her pack.

Now, standing before the mirror clad in a tunic that cost more than a Herring fisherman would make in a year, Flora eyed her reflection somewhat dubiously. She was also astonished at how much her stomach had grown over the past four weeks – it had expanded to the size of a large, rotund pumpkin.

Alistair, conversely, was enchanted by the sight of his copper-haired wife in bottle-green. He paused at her side to admire her reflection, then impulsively pressed a kiss to her cheek.

"Darling, that colour looks stunning on you. You should wear it more often!"

He fingered a thick rope of oxblood hair, letting it rest against its richly contrasting backdrop.

"Green isn't the colour of Theirin," Flora pointed out, obtusely. "Or Highever. It's the colour of South Reach."

Alistair grinned, giving an amiable shrug as he went to open a polished walnut case.

"Well, I'm sure Leonas wouldn't mind. Ready for the final touch, sweetheart?"

Inside the walnut case lay two burnished golden bands, one nestled within the other. The spikes on the larger were more prominent, while the smaller was decorated with seed-pearls set at intervals. Alistair lifted out the more feminine of the crowns, placing it atop his wife's head as she raised her chin to meet its weight and pressure. The king then positioned his own simple coronet, a fraction more used to wearing such a headpiece.

"My beautiful queen," he murmured, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror. "Everything will be fine tonight, I _promise."_

When they descended to the lower floor of the tavern, the rest of the company fell silent; as though suddenly recalling that their travel companions - an amiable young man and his pretty, kind-hearted wife - were also the crowned, anointed leaders of the nation. Ser Gilmore almost went to bow, before Wynne elbowed him with a soft roll of the eyes.

Zevran broke the silence by breaking into a famous Antivan poem about a very expensive courtesan who wore emerald green robes and had eyes like chips of glass. Flora smiled at him while Alistair snorted, taking a gulp from a leftover tankard of ale. She did not know what a courtesan was – she suspected something _lascivious_ \- but she was grateful for the elf's ribaldry and subsequent dissolving of the odd atmosphere. Soon after, the company retrieved their horses from the stables, and set out on the final stage of their journey to the Circle Tower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: The Dragon Age calendar confuses me so much sometimes… I use the more colloquial names for the months, but it makes no sense to me why AUGUST is a month? Literally no other month is called by its real-world counter-part! Did they run out of ideas? Is there a lore reason behind it? Was there a Tevinter emperor named Augustus? Haha it's the most inconsequential thing in the world but I was just curious!
> 
> The River Dane battle info I got from the DA wikia (must credit those sources, lol). Love sneaking a bit of history in!
> 
> Incidentally, here's a fun fact that has no real place in this story… I was just reminded after reblogging an old commission on my tumblr. Flora's method of healing – the exhaling of magic and the inhaling of toxins – was actually based on an old plot point that I abandoned. Originally, Flora was based even more strongly on Wynne – instead of just being a spirit healer, she was actually meant to have her spirits residing within her! Technically an abomination! I hinted at it in one of the early chapters of the Lion and the Light, where Flora (still ignorant of her Cousland heritage) explains that she had no memories before the age of five because she almost drowned picking cockles and had to be pulled from the sea… well, originally, she pretty much did die, and was saved by her spirits. So when Flora healed, she exhaled through her mouth because it was literally her spirits working inside her! When she killed the Archdemon, her spirits would have been destroyed and she would have died too. However, once she gets up the duff I decided to go with the slightly more prosaic 'spirits helping her from the Fade' because I wasn't going to kill off a pregnant character – too grim for me, lol. But her using her mouth to heal is a legacy of that original aspect of her character! Anyway, that was a fun fact that's totally irrelevant to this story since she's lost her magic, hehehe


	102. Return To Kinloch Hold

They reached the Calenhad docks just as the sun touched the Frostbacks, spilling a mellow, apricot-tinged light across the lake's surface. Kinloch Hold – the larger of Ferelden's two Circles – stood stark and brutally impressive, rising an uncompromising height above its rocky isle. Turrets and parapets jutted out from its roughly hewn stone edifice; crude iron bars soldered over the windows. No faces appeared behind the slats, and the only movement from the tower came from the flapping of a lone Chantry banner near its base.

Three figures clad in Templar garb stood at the edge of the docks to greet them, accompanied by several stable-hands. The tallest – whose greying hair and advancing years did not impede his rigid, militaristic posture – was flanked by two younger officers; all three of them equally solemn faced.

As the company rode down the grassy slope towards them, Flora was seized by an irrational surge of fear. She leaned across the gap between their horses – causing an alarmed Alistair to grip her more tightly – and wound her fingers possessively in Wynne's sleeve.

"Wynne, Wynne! _Wynne!"_

"Why are you bleating my name like a sheep, child?"

"They won't try and _keep_ you in the Circle once we go back there, will they?" Flora breathed, her anxious eyes searching the senior enchanter's face. "They'll let you leave with us?"

Wynne suppressed a smile, injecting as much reassurance into her response as possible.

"Florence, I promise you that Greagoir will not entrap me within the Circle. I _do _intend on returning here eventually, but certainly not until the babies are born, at least- _baby_."

The elder mage inhaled at her own slip of the tongue, wondering if either Flora or Alistair had registered her meaning. Alistair, though, was distracted by the approaching Templars and Flora had deliberately stopped listening when Wynne had expressed her eventual intention to return to the Circle. It had been traumatic enough for the young queen when Oghren had departed with the Wardens and Morrigan had left for the Wilds – she was not yet ready to part with any more of her companions.

Knight-Commander Greagoir strode forward, his well-oiled Templar armour making no metallic rattle as it accommodated his movement. He came to a halt before Alistair's horse, bowing deeply.

"Welcome, King Alistair," he said stiffly, more familiar with greeting Chantry seniority than royal guests. It had been a decade since Maric had last visited the Fereldan Circle, and Cailan had never bothered."And-_ Queen Florence."_

There was the slightest, most infinitesimal pause before the Templar commander addressed Flora by her new title. Still, it was a pause noted by the company, including Flora and Alistair himself. The king had just finished assisting his wife down onto the grass, a faint flicker of a scowl passing over his features.

Not all of their party would be accompanying the royal couple into the Circle Tower, since the resident Templars would take on responsibility for guarding the royal couple. Wynne, Zevran and Teagan joined them on the docks; the party dividing themselves into two small groups to fit into the boats provided to ferry them across the serene waters.

The shades of sunset grew richer as they bobbed gently across the placid lake, the sky streaked with mauve atop a background of rich peach. It was a mild evening, accompanied by the cool air typical of late Solace. The chill deepened when they passed into the long shadow of the Circle tower, which fell across the water like a chiding finger.

Alistair, Flora and Greagoir were seated in one ferry boat, accompanied by a seasick Mabari hound and a straight-faced Templar officer. Greagoir kept shooting repeated glances at the increasingly miserable queen; at the peculiar white marks on her hands, the gilded fleck in her eye and the incongruous crown atop her head. Even the boat ride was not enough to bring a smile to her face. Sensitive to his best friend's discomfort, Alistair's expression was growing more and more un-amused; he had half a mind to demand that the boat turn around and return to the docks.

"Sorry, your majesty," the old Templar said suddenly, a note of apology in his voice. "I've never met anyone who lost their magic and wasn't made Tranquil before. It's a… well. It's a first for me."

Flora looked up, with face wan and eyes as translucent as the lake waters lapping at the sides of the boat. Greagoir was scratching at his beard, quite clearly at a loss for how to explain himself.

"Do you remember me? I mean, from when I was at the tower," Flora amended, not wanting to bring up the terrible afternoon when the Wardens had arrived to find the Circle in the grip of demons. "I lived here for four years."

"Aye, vaguely," Greagoir replied, abruptly. "Mostly because you were always out in the corridors with mop and bucket."

In truth, he remembered her more for the startling symmetry of her features than for any magical ability.

Flora brightened, she had enjoyed the cleaning far more than being in the classroom. She was good at cleaning, and had a knack for making the centuries' old flagstones shine like polished slate.

"How is the Circle now?" she asked, letting her hand trail in the water at the side of the boat. "Has everything been mended?"

"Aye," replied Greagoir, relieved that they were in more familiar conversational territory. "We'd made good progress on the restoration of the upper floors even before the Blight was ended, and now the Harrowing chamber itself has been purified and rebuilt."

Alistair suppressed a shiver, recalling the terrible mutilations inflicted on the tower by Uldred and his abominable allies. Pushing the memory forcibly from his mind, he scratched the whimpering Mabari comfortingly behind the ears and returned his gaze to the Templar commander.

"And there's no corruption or malefic taint left?" he asked, sternly. "I won't bring my wife into somewhere _polluted, _especially not when she's expecting a child."

Greagoir spent the remainder of the journey assuring the king of the tower's cleanliness; detailing the various wards, crystals and purification rituals in place to purge any remnant of foul magic.

The two boats dropped anchor at the shore of the rocky isle, where a narrow set of steps hewn into the stone led up to the tower itself. First Enchanter Irving, flanked by a pair of senior enchanters clad in distinctive maroon robes, was waiting before the great wooden doors; his face expectant.

"Your majesties," he declared as the company made their way up to the foot of the tower. "Welcome back to Kinloch Hold. I trust you'll find us in better condition than on your previous visit."

He and the other two mages bowed deeply, as Flora cast an appraising eye over the man who had – for four years - held ultimate seniority in her life. Irving appeared much the same as he had in Denerim two months prior, where he had brought several battalions of mages to assist in the final battle against the Darkspawn. His greying beard was perhaps a shade paler, and the furrows on his forehead a touch deeper; yet on the whole, he appeared hale and hearty enough.

Wynne smiled at the First Enchanter, and Irving inclined his head in an especial nod of greeting to her.

"Senior Enchanter, you're looking well," he commented, wryly. "It appears that life outside the Circle suits you."

Wynne let out a little laugh, darting her gaze over her fellow senior enchanters Sweeney and Torrin.

"I admit, I'm not quite ready to return myself to the Hold's safekeeping quite yet," she replied, equally droll. "Though, I look forward to gaining a roof over my head before the heavens break above us."

Indeed, the evening had drawn in around them, accompanied by some ominous-looking clouds. The rich jewel tones of sunset had been replaced by shrouded layers of grey and navy, and there was a damp promise heavy in the air.

Both sets of doors – outer and inner - were unlocked, and duly sealed behind the party with an ominous thud. Flora stepped into the tower's reception area with slight trepidation; recalling that the last time she had done so, she had been hit with a silencing spell directly in the face.

_The last time we were here, the floor was strewn with injured mages and terrified apprentices, _she thought to herself as several Tranquil stepped forward to take their travelling-cloaks._ The Templars were about to seal off the doors to the upper chambers, and Greagoir was considering the Rite of Annulment._

In marked contrast, the receiving floor of the Tower was now a pleasant and welcoming space; Flora suspected that it had been made deliberately so. A blazing fire roared in the hearth, emanating a soft, bruised cedar-wood scent. Tapestries had been hung over what must have been battle-scarred walls, and eye-catching rugs placed across the tiles.

"Your majesty," Irving began, then smiled and nodded as the king hastily permitted him to use a more familiar address. "Alistair. I suspect that, after a day on the road, you don't want the full tour tonight. You and your party will be accommodated on the fourth floor, in our guest chambers."

Alistair nodded in the affirmative, taking a deep breath before turning to his plump-bellied wife.

"Right, my love. How many of these steps do you feel like tackling? I won't have you over-exerting yourself."

Flora mused quietly to herself for a moment, casting an appraising eye across at the foot of the stairs. They appeared innocuous enough, but she knew that they stretched up for over forty steps between floors.

"We do have a winch and pulley system outside the tower," offered one of the junior Templars, in a moronic attempt to be helpful. "It's used for hoisting furniture up to the top floor."

Alistair gaped, mildly traumatised by the notion of his pregnant wife being hauled on ropes up the hundred-foot high edifice. Beside him, Zevran let out an appalled snort.

Flora, on the other hand, looked faintly intrigued. She was about to open her mouth to enquire in further depth when Alistair cut across her, firmly.

"We'll be taking the stairs," he retorted, as Greagoir shot his aide a malevolent glare. "When you get tired, Flo, let me know."

Flora managed the first flight of steps, huffing and puffing like a small but determined ox. Alistair followed on her tail, his eyes fixed on his best friend's frame. Ten steps into the second flight and she came to an abrupt halt, one hand against the wall.

"I just need a moment," she said, then yelped as Alistair hoisted her upwards into his arms. "You can't carry me up three more flights of steps!"

"I'll take over once we get to the third floor," Teagan interjected, hastily.

The party resumed their ascension of the Circle tower, more rapidly now that they were not limited to the pace of a seven-months' pregnant queen. Flora, clinging to a red-faced Alistair, peered down at Zevran. The elf was hopping up the steps as easily as skipping downhill; not a single hair out of place.

"I'm a literal and figurative burden," she whispered, and her former Crow companion let out another giggle.

"Nonsense, _carina. _Although I _am _impressed by your complex and _existential _descriptive vocabulary. Were you inspired by our intellectual surroundings?"

"No," said Flora amiably, who had no idea what _existential _meant. "Sten told me I was now a 'literal and figurative burden' before we left Denerim. I thought it was a compliment so I said thank you. He almost _laughed! _For the first time ever! It was a special moment."

Sleepy-eyed, she smiled at Zevran and the elf grinned back at her, reaching up to tug gently at a stray lock of dark red hair.

"You are a burden well worth the bearing, _nena."_

Once they had reached the third floor of the tower, Alistair handed Flora over to Teagan; his now-dozing wife barely registered the transition. The staircase wound around the building's central spine, finally reaching the level housing the Templar quarters – and the guest bedchambers.

"Tomorrow, I thought we could give you a tour of the renewed facilities," Irving explained as they followed a wide, curving corridor with a lofty ceiling shrouded in shadow. The First Enchanter was aware of the faint ridiculousness in showing Flora around the tower where she had been confined for four years, yet he had clearly decided to ignore the strangeness of the situation and follow the standard protocol for noteworthy guests.

"Sounds good to me," replied Alistair, more cheerful now the end of the day – and public obligation – was imminent. "Have you recruited more Templars? The place is crawling with them."

Sure enough, the halls and interconnected chambers were filled with fresh-faced young recruits, which reminded Alistair incongruously of himself five years prior. He had spent his training years within Jainen rather than Kinloch Hold, but the solemn earnestness of the junior Templars they passed was oddly familiar. The youths kept their eyes studiously lowered, trained to show dutiful obedience in the presence of their elders.

Irving opened his mouth to respond but Greagoir quickly interjected, giving a curt nod.

"Aye, King Alistair. We're determined not to let another… _incident _like the one from Firstfall happen again."

Flora, who had never been allowed on this floor as a mage, opened her eyes and gazed around her with transparent curiosity. The walls were hung with tapestries depicting events from Andraste's life, much like the ones lining the corridor leading to the Chantry in Denerim Castle.

Nudging Teagan to lower her to the flagstones, she stifled a yawn and looked upwards; recognising the same wrought-iron candelabras they used to illuminate the lower floors. Unlike the lower floors, these were lit with earthly flame rather than violet arcane fire.

"I hope that you aren't all _too_ tired," Irving said, a rare note of indulgence in his voice. "There's someone who's been eagerly anticipating your arrival. Normally, mages wouldn't be permitted onto this floor, but… Greagoir allowed an exception in this case."

"Uncle! Uncle Teagan!"

An excitable, childish voice came echoing down the corridor, followed shortly by the quick patter of booted footsteps. Teagan inhaled sharply, his eyes widening as they focused on a slight figure hurrying towards them.

Connor Guerrin seemed to have grown an inch since his arrival in the Mage tower, though perhaps this was because he no longer held his head low and shoulders hunched. He was clad in the maroon garb of an apprentice, a half-size staff slung across his back. A beam of delight spread over his face as he caught sight of his uncle.

Teagan strode forward to embrace his nephew, ruffling his hair fiercely before holding the boy at arm's length to look him up and down.

"Connor," he said, a note of relief running through the name. "You're looking very well. How are you feeling?"

"I'm at the top of my class," Connor said, proudly. "I can light candles with a _click of my fingers. _My instructors are all very pleased with my progress."

Teagan smiled down at his nephew, the fears of previous months somewhat alleviated.

"Good lad. I'll be sure to tell your father such, and write to your mother."

Connor nodded, squirming free of his uncle and peering at the rest of the company. His eyes fell on Flora, and his auburn brows rose to his hairline.

"Are you having a _baby?!" _he demanded imperiously, the residual authority of an arl's son reverberating about the stone passage. _"His_ baby?"

The young Guerrin made a gesture towards the king. Flora nodded, hoping that her face did not betray the maelstrom of emotions currently swirling within her.

_I'm so glad that you're doing well, and that you no longer hang your head in shame._

_But, please don't ask me to make another Peraquialus for you._

Instead, Connor lowered his voice, continuing in the gentle tones of an earnest, sorrowful child.

"I'm sorry that you lost your magic, Lady Cousland," he said, solemnly. "You probably feel as strange _without_ it, as I once did _with_ it."

Very few people had so openly expressed sympathy for the loss of her abilities. Flora smiled at Connor, not quite trusting herself to speak. She was grateful for Alistair's hand on the small of her back, his palm spread out with comforting warmth.

"Thank you for your letters," the boy continued, producing a crumpled bundle of parchment in a fist. "Though your last note confused me a little. Your writing is _very bad."_

Connor's brow furrowed, and he waved one particular letter at her. By the size and weight of the vellum, Flora recognised it as the one she had sent to the young mage just before the royal party had left Denerim.

Flora wanted to laugh, but instead forced herself to nod gravely.

"I know it's bad," she replied, equally solemn. "Though having any letters at all is an improvement on having _none."_

As a special concession and royal favour, Connor was permitted to spend the rest of the evening with his uncle in the guest quarters. Teagan politely enquired if Alistair needed him any longer and Alistair hastily replied in the negative, urging the bann to go and spend time with his young nephew. Wynne disappeared off to Irving's study for an extensive catch-up; the letters exchanged between the pair were no substitute for a proper, fully-articulated conversation.

Not wanting their other companion to spend the evening alone, Alistair asked if Zevran wanted to join them in their quarters. For a moment, the elf instinctively went to decline, about to offer a quick quip about testing the Templar adherence to _chastity. _A moment later, the Antivan realised that – actually – he would much rather spend the evening with his companions than engage in the pursuit of casual sex. A polite young Tranquil then showed the members of the company to their guest quarters. The separate bedrooms all shared the same entranceway; three doors branching off one common, torch-lit antechamber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Including this progress around Ferelden was a really important part of the sequel for me, because it was a great opportunity to tie up loose ends. The surveying of South Reach, the burning of the Lothering Chantry, this return to the Circle Tower – and then going back to Flora's hometown of Herring and then Highever…. but anyway, I was really looking forward to this bit! The Circle was so messed up during the Origins questline, I couldn't just LEAVE it that way!
> 
> Haha poor old Flo is not enjoying this little excursion at all! Greagoir doesn't really know how to treat her – he remembers her being this random, pretty useless apprentice who could cure Frostcough and do little else of note… and now it's turned out that she was actually a powerful spirit healer who kept her head down and avoided attention for four years… and now she's lost her magic, but she's the new queen of Ferelden. Lol! It was nice to see Connor again - the last time we saw him, he was leaving South Reach en route to the Circle. Flora promised that she would write to him, and she has - albeit barely legibly. Is it true that in Inquisition, he can set himself on fire?! WTF? I hope that's not actually true!
> 
> Hoisting a pregnant woman up on ropes and pulley on the outside of the tower… not the best idea ever, haha


	103. Keeping Warm On A Cold Night

The bedchamber ascribed to the royal couple was the same one assigned to senior members of the Chantry, when they happened to visit on official inspection. It was therefore very comfortable – since Chantry elders were often venerable – with a vast, overstuffed bed, layers of finely embroidered blankets, and a bookshelf full of religious codices. However, the décor too was chosen to suit the tastes of Chantry officials. A vast and eerily lifelike tapestry of Andraste burning at the stake hung opposite the bed, while a small altar had been set up opposite the hearth. A full-size pair of statues depicting Maferath crippled by guilt flanked either side of the headboard.

Alistair, muttering darkly under his breath, dragged a chair across to the offending tapestry. With some help from the agile elf, he hung up a blanket over the Maker's burning bride, whose agony was embroidered in excruciating detail.

"I'm not having the poor woman staring down at us for three nights," he complained, seeing Flora visibly exhale in relief once the image was covered. "How am I supposed to make love to my wife in the face of _that?"_

"That was the only Chantry story I really remembered when I was younger," Flora added, sitting cross-legged amidst a nest of blankets as she detangled her hair from the crown. "The one with Andraste being martyred. It used to give me nightmares, I thought that if Templars ever caught me in Herring, they would burn me alive."

"Maker's Breath!" remarked Alistair in astonishment, removing the gold band from his own head and placing it atop the dresser. "The Templars aren't monsters. They'd never burn a mage, even an apostate. _Especially _not a child."

"Well, I was only fifteen when they caught me," Flora said, quietly. "And they weren't especially gentle."

The queen, as a former mage, and the king - a former Templar – had differing perspectives on the Chantry's militaristic arm. Alistair began to unbutton his tunic, striding over to the bed and sitting on the edge of the mattress.

"My poor darling," he said, knowing exactly what incident she was referring to. They had glimpsed this most traumatic of recollections at South Reach, when Wynne had delved deep within Flora's memory to uncover her hidden Cousland heritage. "They weren't at all gentle with you. It makes me sick to my stomach."

Alistair reached out to lift Flora's legs onto his lap, removing her boots carefully one by one. After adjusting the tightness of the leather strap around her weak knee, he began to knead her sore feet with strong, capable fingers. Flora slumped back on the bed, her stomach now so prominent that it hid her head entirely from view when she was in prostrate position.

"Zev- ran?"

The elf's name drifted up from behind the firm bulge of flesh, bisected by a yawn. Zevran paused in his inspection of a cunningly crafted statuette of a priestess, cast in silverite. He swung his slender frame towards her, lithe and fleet-footed as a desert cat.

"_Carina?" _he purred, sauntering around to the other side of the bed and sprawling across the blankets.

Flora propped herself up on an elbow, grateful for Alistair's firm grasp wringing out the aches from her throbbing toes.

"What are the Circles like in Antiva? Have you ever been to one?"

The elf nodded, rubbing the embroidered blanket absentmindedly between finger and thumb.

"The Crows sent me there once – for surveillance, not for a mark. I met a beautiful young apprentice who was very _curious _about the outside world, and eager for any information I could give her. Ah, she was a lovely creature – glossy dark hair, lips like polished garnets…"

The elf cut himself off as Flora eyed him, unable to stop a grin from spreading across his tanned, tattooed features.

"Sorry. Anyway, from what little I know, I believe that in Antiva, the Templars keep an even _closer_ eye on their charges; like an old man with a pretty young wife. There are many Templars here, _sí, _but in the Antivan Circle you cannot take a step without a guard breathing down your neck with one hand on his blade."

Flora grimaced, leaning back against the pillows and watching Alistair shrug his unbuttoned tunic from his broad shoulders. Both she and the elf were silent for a moment, admiring the solid, olive-toned musculature of Alistair's chest; honed through years of meticulous drill and action in the field.

"The Templars here weren't that bad," she said at last, thoughtfully. "I know they punished people who tried to escape, but they weren't _overly_ harsh. I got caught out after curfew a lot – mostly sneaking down to the kitchens – and I mostly got told off. They didn't treat me too badly."

Alistair gave an indignant nod, striding over to the window. Like all holes hewn into the solid stone edifice, it was covered with a soldered iron grill; thick, black bars impeding the view of Calenhad's reflection of the night sky.

"I should think not," he retorted, drawing the crimson velvet curtain across the barred window. "My love. It's hard to imagine you locked up in this grim prison. At least the Templars weren't too horrible to you."

Flora and Zevran glanced at one another, a flicker of mutual understanding passing between them. The elf reached out to tap her good knee gently in a premature apology, clearing his throat.

"_Sí, mi sirenita _has been very fortunate," he murmured, leaning back against the pillows. "There are many horror stories emerging from the mage towers of Thedas. If Flora had been in – say – _Kirkwall's _Circle, her experience could have been quite different, from what I've heard."

Alistair finished drawing the curtains, a frown scrawling itself across his handsome features as he turned back to the bed.

"What do you mean?"

Zevran paused, and then lifted one shoulder in a rueful shrug.

"A beautiful girl from – apparently – a background of poverty, with nobody to speak for her? In Kirkwall, _mi florita _would have been taken as some Templar officer's bedchamber pet. Perhaps even Tranquillised to facilitate the abuse."

Alistair's jaw dropped even as Flora winced; she had predicted that Zevran's example would be cruel, but not _that _hideous.

"But… but that's a violation of their oath to the Chantry," the king protested, striding over to the bed and sitting down beside his grimacing wife. "Templars are supposed to _protect_ the mages within their care. To preserve their well-being! _Maker's Breath! _Flo, nothing like that… nothing like that ever happened to you? Well, I suppose you could have just used your shield if anyone tried to _– _to _force themselves _on you."

Flora gazed at her best friend silently, waiting for his thought to reach its logical conclusion. It manifested visibly on Alistair's face, a brief contortion of dreaded realisation.

"But if you used magic against a Templar, they _could _use that as an excuse to have you Tranquilised."

Alistair reached out for Flora, drawing her close against his side in a surge of sudden protectiveness.

"My sweet girl," he breathed, his arm now wrapped tight around her shoulders. "You were only little when you came here. Fifteen years old is – well, you were _a child."_

The troubled look embedded itself more deeply on Alistair's face; the realisation dawning that – had his training been completed – he would have been on the other side of this imbalanced power equation.

Zevran glanced at Flora, who shot her friend a wan smile in return.

_It's enough to make him aware, _the elf communicated with a single flicker of his rich Antivan eyes. _Get the thought planted in that royal brain._

The former Crow rose to his feet with a small sigh, putting fingers to his mouth in an elaborate aping of a yawn.

"Speaking of curious apprentices, I might have a little wander and see what I can find. Or," he continued, with a wry smile and an eloquent shrug. "I may go straight to my slumber. It's been a long day on the road."

As Zevran rose to his feet with catlike grace, Flora grasped a handful of embroidered wool and thrust it towards him.

"Take a spare blanket," she instructed, sternly. "It always gets cold at night here, no matter how much wood you put on the hearth."

The elf reached out for the blanket, folding the bundle of patterned wool elegantly over his arm. He looked about to say something, and then changed his mind, reaching out to drop an affectionate hand to the top of Flora's head instead.

"_Gracias, nena. _See you both in the morning, hm?"

As the door closed in Zevran's wake, those left within caught a metallic sheen outside; the usual Royal Guard replaced by Templars for the duration of their Circle stay. Flora leaned back against the cushions, watching Alistair arrange a half-dozen more logs in the hearth. He had taken her warning about chilly nights at Kinloch Hold to heart; the king was determined to defy the rule.

"The cold is in the building's bones," she told him, wriggling her bare toes against the tangled blankets. "It's sunk in too deep. It's never properly warm here."

Alistair could _feel _what she meant – there was an odd texture to the tower air that let draughts pass freely through, but any thermal breeze or warm current was brutally suppressed. He thought that it might have something to do with the dampness of the walls, or their ancient, Tevinter-built thickness – regardless of the cause, the outcome was a permanent chilly edge to the air.

He abandoned the hearth, hanging the poker on its hook and turning back towards the bed. Flora was still slumped against the cushions, patting a hand idly over her stomach to try and encourage its contents into a more comfortable position. Her hair was dishevelled – she had spent much of the afternoon snoring against his chest - and she was paler than usual, smudges of tiredness outlining her eyes.

Alistair paused at the foot of the bed, his soft, hazel eyes bruised with affection as they settled on her.

"How are you feeling, sweetheart?"

Flora looked over at him as he sat on the mattress, scratching the end of her nose.

"I feel like a bloated fish," she confessed, dolefully. "And every part of me is sore."

Slithering up the blankets Alistair propped himself on top of her, using strong arms to keep himself elevated. Flora reflexively slid back down against the pillows, peering up at him through half-closed eyes. He ducked his head to peer closely at her; the green flecks in his tawny stare standing out more prominently in the firelight.

Flora, a northerner who never shied away from direct gazes, stared unblinkingly back at him. Alistair's gaze wandered over her finely-hewn features, which - over the past year - had begun to emerge with startling clarity from the childishness of adolescence.

"Maker," he murmured, with breathless admiration. _"'Florence the Fair', _indeed. My beautiful wife. I'm the luckiest man in Thedas."

The king, sensitive to his queen's advanced condition, was in the habit of letting her decide whether or not they would be intimate. There had been a few occasions when Flora had preferred to lie chaste and untouched at his side; usually when she felt particularly nauseous. Most nights, she still actively sought out her husband's touch, urged onwards by hormonal imbalance and a desire to be distracted from the soreness of her body.

Now Flora smiled shyly, the wide, languid mouth curving upwards at one corner even as a flush spread itself across her collarbone. Reaching up, she cupped his newly stubbled cheek in a palm and drew his head down to hers; letting one knee loll to the side in a blatant invitation.

Alistair's gaze refocused, narrowing and darkening as lust began to diffuse into the tenderness. He licked his lips, letting his thigh drop between her parted legs with deliberate provocation. To further display her willingness Flora readily ground herself against the hard muscle, an involuntary whimper escaping her throat.

"_Aah- "_

"Keep doing that, baby," the king instructed hoarsely, unbuttoning her night-shirt with lust-clumsy fingers. "Maker, I can't get enough of all the gorgeous little noises you make. I wish I could bottle them."

Letting the fabric drape open to reveal Flora's full cleavage, Alistair began to lavish her bare breasts with careful attention. He pressed gentle kisses against her sensitive nipples, letting his tongue gently flick at each one in turn. Instead of squeezing each ripe breast like a peach at market, he caressed the plump mound with loving, softly stroking fingers.

Only once his new wife was squirming and desperate for _more_, did Alistair begin to kiss his way down her body. His kisses shifted from lustful to loving, then veered sharply back to the former as his mouth reached her pubic mound. After nuzzling his face into the soft wisps of hair he licked his lips in anticipation, eager to begin.

"Can I kiss you down here, lovely?" he asked for a final time, wanting to confirm her desire. "Use my tongue on that pretty little- "

She parted her thighs as readily as she had done for him at Ostagar seven months earlier; when he had taken her hard and ungentle on a mouldering bedroll with Cailan's ashes still smudged on his cheek.

Twenty minutes later, and Flora had somehow discarded the remainder of her clothing. She was sprawled entirely naked atop the blankets, one hand flung limply to the side. An expression of delight was embedded across her flushed face; her eyes half-closed and her lips parted. The only sound in the chamber came from the crackling hearth, and from the king's mouth working enthusiastically between his bride's legs, his tongue tracing the most intimate contours of her body. Small pants of arousal escaped her throat and the fingers of her free hand clutched the blanket.

The king had honed his skills in this area extensively over the past seven months, mostly through frequent practice with an enthusiastic and extremely willing partner. He had also learnt several invaluable techniques from watching Flora and Isabela in bed together. The future queen and Rivaini pirate had made love for almost a half-candle before Alistair had joined in; he had been struck into paralysis by the beauty of their entwined bodies writhing on the bed.

Now Flora's other hand rested atop Alistair's head, gently nudging his attention between different spots. He acquiesced eagerly, drinking her in, his tongue's sole aim to coax forth as much pleasure as possible.

"Come on, baby," he murmured thickly between caresses, nuzzling his face against her inner thigh. "Come on, my love. Don't hold back; I want to taste my prize."

Sure enough, Flora obligingly came apart beneath him, her fingers clenched in the blankets and her hips arching as high as they were able, considering the additional weight upon them. Her wail of completion echoed to the lofty ceiling of the guest chamber, reverberating between the covered tapestry of Andraste and the Chantry relics arranged on the dresser.

A delighted Alistair continued to press teasing kisses into her, branding her with his lips over and over until she was almost cross-eyed.

Finally, he emerged from between her legs and reached for a flagon from the night-table, taking several breathless gulps. Once he had refreshed himself, he replaced the tankard and went to take his wife in his arms, embracing her as she lay limp and dazed in a tangle of blankets.

"Darling," he breathed, drawing her close to his chest and curving his body around her. "We haven't done that in _weeks. _What's _wrong_ with me? It's one of my favourite things to do."

"It's hard to do in a tent," Flora replied prosaically, patting her six foot and three inch tall husband on the back of the neck. "And you'd have to contort yourself oddly. Or have your feet sticking out of the doorway!"

Alistair let out a dismissive grunt, he was happy to contort himself in whatever peculiar manner was required, if it would satisfy his wife. Flora reached for his hand and linked their fingers together, the metal of the wedding rings making a gentle _clink _as they collided.

"It was a little strange not being able to see you," she confessed, gesturing down to her protruding stomach and trying not to giggle. "When you did that _thing _with your tongue, I thought maybe Isabela had got lost on her way back to the harbour. Except for the_ stubble, _which was a giveaway."

Alistair grinned, bringing their conjoined fingers to his mouth for a kiss.

"I did learn that 'thing' from her," he admitted, cheerfully. "She was a good teacher."


	104. The Watchers And The Watched

Flora had not been telling fibs: night in the Circle Tower arrived swiftly, with cold breath and colder hands. Despite it still being the end of Solace, Kinloch Hold's geographical position meant that it intercepted both the westerly winds from the Frostbacks, and the frigid air drifting south from the Waking Sea. Every chamber in the Circle tower had a roof that stood a dozen yards high, so any heat from the hearth was perpetually lost to the rafters. The basalt tiles, cut in sharp geometric patterns, were as unforgiving on bare feet as blocks of ice. In the winter, gossamer-thin veins of frost formed on the insides of the windows.

Flora, who had spent ten years sleeping in a mildewed fisherman's hut before being taken to the Circle, had once found the night-time chill oddly comforting. She had liked to wrap herself up in blankets until only her eyes remained visible; snug as a nesting bird until morning. Now that she had to pry herself from the warmth of Alistair's arms at regular intervals to use the privy, Flora was not so keen on the Circle's bitterly cold climate.

As the Templars changed watch at the second hour of morning, she was forced to disentangle herself from Alistair once again. He let out a sleepy mumble, rolling over into the warm hollow where his wife had been lying.

Grimacing at every bare-footed step, Flora inched her way across the frigid tiles, suddenly wistful for the liberally-strewn furs covering the floor of the Royal bedchamber back in Denerim.

_Leliana mentioned once that in Orlais, they have special night-shoes for when you needed to seek out the privy at night, _she remembered, probing her mind for the memory. _Made of silk, with a fur lining._

_I made fun of her at the time – needing special shoes just to go to the toilet! Herring girls, barefoot always! But now, I'm envious. I wish I had some._

_What were they called? Kippers?_

Finally reaching the door, Flora rapped gently at the solid oak with her knuckles. It swung open almost immediately; a Templar whom she vaguely recognised stepped forwards with a bow.

"Your majesty? Is anything wrong?"

"I need the privy again," she confessed, slightly embarrassed. "Nothing's wrong."

The Templar, keeping a well-honed straight face, nodded. He stepped back to allow Flora to pass through the doorway, following in her wake at a discreet distance.

On her way back from the privy, a small doorway half-hidden between racks of stacked shields caught the queen's eye. She paused, a flicker of memory igniting in the back of her mind.

"Where does that lead to?"

"Up to the roof, mag- _your majesty,"_ replied Flora's Templar escort, who had once berated her sixteen year old self for twenty solid minutes after she had been caught in the kitchens after curfew. "The back stair."

"Oh," Flora breathed, her eyes misting over with reminiscence. "Oh, I used to sneak up there _all the time. _Oops, sorry."

A vein above the Templar's eye was twitching at this confession, but professionalism won out. He let out a slightly strangled grunt, inclining his head.

"I wanted to see if you could see the sea from up there," she confessed, wanting to justify her rule-breaking. "I was so homesick. You _couldn't _see the sea, but… but if it was a cloudy evening, you could fool yourself into thinking that the horizon was water."

Flora blinked at herself, surprised at her own eloquence in the face of a Templar. She had rarely spoken to one in such lengths before; spurred on by her impulsivity, she took a step towards the doorway and reached out for the handle. As her fingers grasped the iron ring, a nagging voice echoed in the back of her head, stern and demanding acknowledgement.

_You promised: no more nocturnal wanderings!_

It was not the voice of her spirits, but it was authoritative enough for Flora to listen. She withdrew her hand, turning on her bare heel and scuttling – crab-like – back across the cold tiles towards the bedchamber.

Moments later, she was hunched awkwardly beside Alistair, patting his shoulder with rhythmic urgency.

"Alistair, Alistair- "

The king let out a strangled groan, rubbing his hand over his face and letting out an unintelligible sound. Flora continued to beat at him gently with her fingers until he opened his eyes, blinking to gain focus.

"Alistair, Alistair."

"Wha – what is it, my love?" he said, the words emerging in a tangle of sleep.

"You asked me to tell you when I was going off in the middle of the night," she whispered, more dark-red ropes of hair hanging free from the band than contained within it. "So this is that. Me telling you."

Alistair blinked again as her words pierced the fog of sleep with ominous clarity.

"'_Going off in the middle of the night'," _he repeated, a frown embedding itself across his handsome features. "Going off _where, _pumpkin?"

"The roof."

"_The roof?!" _Alistair's voice rose several pitches in alarm as he sat up, gaping at her. "Darling, I don't want you running amok on rooftops! Especially not in your condition."

"I won't be _running_ _amok_," Flora retorted, indignantly. "I'll be… _elegantly strolling_."

"Elegantly strolling?"

"Mm. It's a flat roof. It's got a _precipice."_

She had meant to say _parapet, _unwittingly choosing its more dangerous cousin_. _Alistair eyed her appraisingly for a moment; Flora gazed back at him, a fleck of Herring grit in her stare. The king, realising that his wife was not going to change her mind, swung his legs out of bed with a yawn.

"_Right. _If we're going outside, my love, you're not going in just a nightie and bare feet."

Flora patiently waited, holding out her arms as she was bundled up in about six different jumpers and a blanket. Once Alistair was satisfied that the harsh western winds were not going to reach an inch of his wife's baby-bearing body, he pulled on his own tunic and gamely made to follow her on this most recent nocturnal venture.

Hand in hand, they made their way out into the tiled corridor with its dizzyingly high ceiling. The Templars on guard duty shot them an odd glance before following discretely in their wake; as did several more patrolling the corridors.

"Now that I'm the _watched _rather than the _watcher _in this situation_," _Alistair breathed, watching Flora wrap her fingers around the iron ring on the door. "I can see how odd it must feel. Let me get the door, sweeting."

Flora nodded; she recalled well enough how it felt to be scrutinised. She and Alistair had grown used to being in the public eye over recent months, but even that was not the same as this particular type of observation – a close, disturbingly intimate stare that looked for any hint of demonic possession. It was a stare with one hand on the sword, rather than raised in praise or greeting. Although neither Flora nor Alistair were in danger of possession; the Templar glare did not discriminate.

Alistair's lips tautened as he held the door open, light spilling into a shadowed spiral staircase. The narrow constrictions of the space seemed even tighter when compared to the airy vastness of the rest of the Circle architecture. The torches placed in iron brackets were unlit, since the back stair was so infrequently used; the air had a strange mustiness to it. Due to its location within the centre of the Tower, there were no windows to let in slits of light. One of the guards brought forth a lantern from some nearby store, venturing up ahead to light their way.

"Oh," breathed Flora, astounded that it was only a year ago that she had crept up this cobwebbed staircase with regularity. "It feels like ages ago since I was last here."

She began to plod up the steps, noting with some ruefulness how often she needed to stop to catch her breath. Alistair followed close on her heels, arms hovering in preparation to reach out and steady her in case of lost footing.

Gradually, they made their way in tight concentric circles up through the remaining floors of the Circle. They passed behind the wall of the First Enchanter's study, where Irving and Wynne were hunched deep in conversation; then beside the Harrowing Chamber at the apex of the tower.

The staircase came to an abrupt end with a wooden door, upon which a heavy iron padlock had been ostentatiously hung.

"Looks like it's been locked up tight," observed Alistair, nudging the padlock with a finger. "Save for battering the door down, there's not much we can do."

"No, no- " corrected Flora, clutching the errant blanket to her chest. It kept slithering down her shoulders, the rich lambs' wool lacking the traction of its coarse, cheaper equivalent. "It's not attached to anything."

She reached out and lifted the padlock, showing that it merely hung useless at the handle; though looked convincing enough at a distance. A gentle nudge and the door swung open, administering a blast of chilly air straight to their faces.

The rooftop was wide and flat, surrounded by a low, crenelated parapet. The central spire in its centre rose up towards the night sky like a finger pointed to the heavens. To the south, Lake Calenhad stretched out in a vast, ink-black mirror, emulating the night sky with eerie accuracy. To the east, the terrain rose up in low, uneven hills, covered in dense forest. To the north lay rugged moorland, occupied only by sheep and their caretakers. Yet perhaps the most impressive view was directly _upwards; _where the stars crowded the heavens with a tangle of iridescent constellations, the moon a vast, glimmering replica of the pearl resting on the queen's slender finger. The night sky during the waning of Solace was always especially beautiful; streaks of silvery mist strewn through the atmosphere like the effervescent breath of some nocturnal goddess.

Alistair paused for a moment to gaze upwards, struck into silence by the sheer beauty of the gleaming firmament. The air was cold enough that he could see his own breath coalesce before his face; the exposed skin of his forearms rose up in startled dimples. He took several steps forward, resting his hands atop the parapet that separated the roof from the precarious drop.

The king could see the occasional cluster of lights along the shore, marking the locations of various villages too small to be noted by cartographers. His thoughts turned reflexively to Herring – which had now been hand-inked on every map in Ferelden – and then to his wife, who had been so indignant when she first realised that it had not been included in the first place.

Flora had not ventured to the more picturesque southern face of the tower, with its view of the Lake, or the east to gaze at the rolling hills of the Bannorn. Instead, she had crossed the flagstones – ignorant of the chill air – to stare out from the northern balcony. The peat moorland stretched out for three dozen barren miles, unbroken by civilisation save for the occasional shepherd's hut. No trees or tall bushes rose up to interrupt the rugged skyline; all life on the moors was forced to hunch close to the earth by the punishing and perpetual winds from the Waking Sea. The horizon was lost in a mass of cloud, grey and ominous.

The sea itself was not visible from the Circle Tower's northern balcony. This had been a source of recurring sadness for the younger Flora, who lived in hope that the cloud might one day clear and allow her to glimpse her home. This was a foolish hope – especially for a native of Herring – since thick, dense cloud was an almost permanent climatic cipher of the north.

Now, darkness hid all but the first few miles of moorland, shrouding what lay beyond in shadow. Out of habit, Flora still squinted towards it, placing both hands on the cold basalt stone of the parapet. She had let the blanket drop from her shoulders in her eagerness to venture over to the balcony, although the multiple layers of woollen jumper kept her sufficiently warm.

"We'll be at the north coast by the middle of next week, my love."

Alistair replaced the blanket around her shoulders, having retrieved it as he ventured across the tower roof. He slid his arms around her swollen waist and she instinctively leaned back against him.

"I'm so excited," she whispered, tremulously. "I can't wait to see the sea. Not that the Amaranthine Ocean wasn't beautiful," she admitted hastily, recalling the placid, pea-green coastline beside Denerim. "But it… it wasn't the Waking Sea."

Alistair grimaced involuntarily, and he ducked his head to press a kiss to Flora's head. Both from what Finian had told him, and his own general knowledge of Fereldan geography, the northern coast was an unbroken stretch of bleak and brutal ugliness; with the foulest weather in Ferelden and a tide that actively sought to drag men to their deaths.

Yet Flora was gazing off into the mist-shrouded horizon with an odd wistfulness, recalling the dozens – _hundreds _\- of times over her four year stay she had perched on this parapet and stared fruitlessly towards her home, always tantalisingly just hidden from view.

"Once I thought the cloud was clearing and so I stayed up here until dawn," she said, almost to herself. "That was the time the Templars caught me."

"What did they do?" breathed Alistair, barely daring to ask.

"Put me in a dark cell on my own for a week," Flora replied, with a little shrug. "But it wasn't so bad. I had my spirits to talk to, and I- I could make my own light."

She raised her fingers, and for a brief moment, was genuinely shocked that no gleaming gold ignited beneath her bitten nails.

"How old were you, my love?" asked Alistair, having a hard time keeping his voice even.

"It wasn't long after I arrived," Flora replied, after furrowing her brow in thought. "I'd just turned fifteen."

"Maker's Breath," said Alistair in alarm, drawing her closer. "You were still a-a little girl."

Flora shrugged a shoulder and gave an ambiguous grunt; her spirits had been with her and she had not been frightened. In fact, the quiet and isolation had been a welcome break from the crowds and bustle of the apprentice dormitories.

"I was never hurt by the Templars," she countered, wrapping her fingers around his arm and stroking it through the sleeve. _"You _used to get beaten at the monastery when you misbehaved."

"Well, I probably deserved it," the king replied, with forced cheeriness. "I was an angry little sod at times."

Flora shot him a beady-eyed look of reproach, her head swivelling back and forth in firm denial.

"You did _not _deserve it_. _If we ever go to Bournshire monastery, I'm going to… to… to _keel-haul _all the instructors that ever laid a finger on you!"

Alistair bit back a smile, rubbing the heel of his palm over her wool-swaddled belly to feel the outline of the babe beneath.

"Sounds like a plan, my love. Though I'm sure, after a month at Revanloch, you've seen enough Chantry monasteries to last a lifetime."

They stayed up on the rooftop for some time, huddled together for protection against the chilly night air and gazing out towards the mist-shrouded north. Eventually, Flora yawned and turned her face sleepily against Alistair's arm; he kissed the top of her head with tender affection.

"Ready to go back to bed, my sweet little lobster?"

Flora, who loved any marine-themed term of endearment, beamed.

"Mm!"


	105. The Mage Council

The next morning, Alistair could have sworn that he had awoken back in Denerim Castle. The door to their bedroom was eased open an hour after dawn, and what seemed like a bevy of people trooped in. This included – to the king's mild alarm – Wynne, Greagoir and the First Enchanter's secretary.

Thanking Andraste that neither he nor Flora were unclothed – he was in his sleep-trousers while she was in the alarming mustard dressing gown – Alistair rubbed a hand over his face and eyed the early arrivals.

"It's the Council of the Bedchamber: Circle edition," he commented without rancour, nudging Flora gently awake. "Morning, everyone. Did we oversleep?"

"No," began the diplomatic Teagan, just as Wynne issued a blunt _yes. _"Well, perhaps just a little. Did you two have a late night?"

The bann cringed, realising the inference that could be gleaned from his question. Alistair blinked, but Flora came to her husband's rescue; pushing herself up against the cushions and smiling at Teagan.

"We went up onto the roof," she confessed, cheerfully. "It was my fault. We were up there for an hour."

"Did you see the sea this time, _nena_?" Zevran asked, eyeing a gilded symbol of Andraste stood prominently on the dresser. The elf recalled well enough Flora describing the purpose of her past rooftop visits during their earlier travels.

"No, it was too cloudy," Flora replied, swinging her legs from beneath the blankets. "Ooh, I need the privy again."

As the queen padded off – a vision in mustard wool - with a guard trailing in her wake, Alistair clambered out of bed and stretched his sleep-sore muscles.

"What's the plan for today?" he asked, taking a hunk of bread from the breakfast tray as he headed towards the ewer and basin. "Let me guess – it involves a lot of climbing up and down staircases?"

"In the morning, after attending the senior enchanters' briefing, you'll be shown around the Circle facilities," announced Irving's secretary, making a show of consulting his notebook despite having learnt the schedule off by heart. "In the afternoon, you'll be observing one of our classroom sessions."

Alistair nodded, dropping the wet flannel back into the bowl and looking about the chamber for his tunic.

"And the evening?"

"If you and the queen desire it, we have a very astute healer amongst our senior ranks," the secretary continued, quill and parchment in hand. "A mage proficient in assessing the wellbeing of mother and unborn babe – he's just returned from assisting a midwife in a nearby village. Would you have him visit your quarters this evening?"

Alistair nodded, letting out a long exhalation of relief.

"Maker's Breath! Yes. I'd appreciate that _immensely."_

The secretary made a brief note on his parchment and then paused, an edge of slight wariness creeping into his tone.

"I should mention that – the healer in question is a former _Dalish_ _elf. _Would this be an issue, your majesty?"

From his perch near the window, Zevran let out a low snort, rolling his coal-dark Antivan eyes. Alistair paused in the buttoning of his tunic, his voice calm and measured but with chips of glass in his accompanying stare.

"I assure you, that won't be an issue _in the slightest," _he replied, quietly. "Shall we ask the queen, to be sure? Though I'm reasonably certain I know her answer."

Flora had just returned, her oxblood hair clashing alarmingly with the lurid wool.

"My love?"

"Eh?"

"There's someone who can check the health of the baby later today. A Dalish elf."

Flora beamed, her expression brightening.

"Oh, good! I wonder if they've got any herbal remedies for indigestion? My stomach keeps growling like… like an angry toadfish."

Alistair turned back towards the secretary with eyebrows raised to his hairline, spreading his hands wryly.

"The queen clearly has no issue with it, ser."

"Issue with what?" asked Flora, gratefully accepting a pear from Teagan.

"Nothing, my love. Eat up, we've a long day ahead of us."

The first item on the day's agenda was a meeting with the senior enchanters, hosted within a circular room nestled between the Harrowing chamber and the First Enchanter's study. It was a round, high-ceilinged space, lined with curving bookshelves and hung with various arcane curiosities. Oddities in glass cases were scattered amongst the bookshelves, some of them emitting their own muted source of light.

As they entered, Zevran drew closer to Flora, drawing her attention towards one particular case. It contained a Qunari skull, one horn broken; its mouth affixed in a wide, silent roar. Various runic inscriptions were carved into the pale bone, several of them appeared to be glowing faintly.

"_Carina, _it's things such as _that _which give mages a bad name," he murmured under his breath. "Why could there not be something innocuous in there?"

"Like what?" replied Flora, bemused.

Zevran could not think of anything and so pulled a little face, eyeing the Qunari skull with misgiving.

"Enjoy your tedious meeting, _nena. _I am off to explore."

"Don't get into trouble!"

"I shall endeavour to!"

It was oddly poignant to sit at the oval table with the survivors of Ferelden's senior mage council – each chair had been labelled with a name, and several seats sat empty. Out of respect for those who had been killed – either during the Circle crisis or in the final battle – their staves and cloaks were left on their unoccupied chairs. One chair was turned ostensibly away from the table; Flora assumed that this must have belonged to the traitor Uldred.

She, Alistair and Teagan were seated on chairs reserved for guests, near the apex of the oval. Alistair was seated in the position of honour beside First Enchanter Irving, and Flora was placed at his right. There was a slight delay as various cushions were located for the heavy-bellied queen's back – and she found her eyes wandering to the empty chair beside Teagan's seat.

There was a handwritten label on it, but the writing was elegant, calligraphic, and utterly unintelligible. Flora nudged Teagan, pointing towards the label.

"Whose chair was that?"

Teagan leaned over, reading the name with ease.

"'_Niall'."_

Flora inhaled, recalling the sad-faced mage instructor she had met while trapped within the Sloth demon's Fade-prison. Together, she and Niall had slain the demon; but only she had returned back through the Veil into the waking world.

"Was he one of your old teachers, poppet?" Teagan asked, spotting the flicker of recognition across Flora's face.

"No," she replied, gravely. "The senior enchanters taught the advanced classes. I never passed beyond beginner."

"A _critical _flaw in our system," murmured Wynne from her own designated seat, brow furrowing. "Someone with your healing abilities should have been tutored by a senior enchanter from the moment you arrived at the Circle. But since your other skills were so limited, you were kept in classes taught by less experienced mages."

Flora was grateful for the timely arrival of the cushions, saving them from further reminiscence on her own former abilities.

Once she had been sufficiently propped up against the chair, several Tranquil arrived to place silver wine-jugs and matching cups before them.

First Enchanter Irving swept his gaze around those gathered at the table, clearing his throat and steepling his fingers. The elderly mage was dressed in ceremonial navy robes that appeared in far better condition than his usual drab attire – the other mages were clad in the customary maroon garb of a senior enchanter. Knight-Captain Greagoir was seated in a chair set slightly apart from the council table, its wooden back carved with the Templar symbol.

"As always, we shall begin our session with a moment of silence to honour those members of our Council no longer with us," Irving began, his words resonating through the still, damp air. "Leorah; Niall; Surana; Jamic."

There followed a pause, during which Flora dutifully closed her eyes and Alistair shot a curious side-glance towards Uldred's turned-away chair. Returning his gaze forward, the king flinched as he met the direct stare of a balding, portly mage seated opposite – only to realise that the man was blind, pale clouds floating over his pupils.

"May their spirits watch over us from the Fade," Irving concluded, then cleared his throat and shuffled his parchment. "Right. What's next?"

Greagoir let out a soft snort of exasperation. Wynne rolled her eyes at the First Enchanter's absentmindedness, canting her head pointedly towards where Alistair and Flora were sitting.

"Ah!" said Irving, brightly. "Of course. The Circle is honoured by the presence of King Alistair… ah, _Queen Florence,_ and Bann Guerrin of Rainesfere."

There was only the slightest pause before _Queen Florence, _but it went unnoticed by no one. Flora hunched a fraction in her chair, trying desperately not to sulk. Alistair nodded politely, his lips taut. He was well aware of Flora's discomfort, and wished that he could put his hand on her knee beneath the table. Unfortunately, the chairs were spaced too far apart; their wooden legs magically sealed to the flagstones.

"It's been many decades since a king of Ferelden last visited our Circle," Irving continued, fingers running thoughtfully through the end of his trailing beard. "Your father came shortly after his coronation, around the turn of the Age."

"Yes, it's been far too long," Alistair said bluntly, in no mood for draping politeness over his words. "Denerim needs to become much more involved in Ferelden's Circles, if only to ensure that what happened last year will never be repeated. I want to hear the results of your inquiry into the incident, _including _the measures and precautions taken to prevent it from happening again."

The First Enchanter raised his eyebrows and gazed at the young king, who stared back with Marician steeliness. Alistair was leaning back in his chair, exuding the natural confidence that accompanied a position of authority, his expression expectant.

Flora felt a throb of pride within her chest as she glanced sideways at her best friend.

_He's getting so good at this, _she thought to herself. _I don't even think he needs to force himself to do it anymore. I think it's starting to come naturally._

"Senior Enchanter Torrin led the investigation into the abomination crisis," Irving said, acquiescing to the king's request. "Torrin, would you kindly recant your findings?"

"Just the important bits," Alistair said hastily, aware that mages tended towards wordiness. "Like _why _it happened in the first place, and _how _you're going to ensure that it'll never happen again. But I want a full copy of the report to take back to Denerim."

Over the next hour, the senior enchanter went meticulously through all that Alistair had requested, including Uldred's growing fascination with blood magic and his eventual summoning of the Sloth demon. Alistair listened with a stony expression; it having just occurred to him that if Flora had not been recruited by Duncan, she too would have been caught up in the carnage and chaos at the Circle.

The king was more interested in the new _precautions _put in place to prevent such terrible events from occurring again. These included more extensive checks on senior enchanters, in the same manner that their junior colleagues were scrutinised.

"Woken up in the middle of the night to check for possession," muttered Senior Enchanter Sweeney to the mage at his side. "Just like being a bloody apprentice again."

He was silenced by glares from all other parts of the table. Torrin continued to list off the precautions in a monotonous drone; including package inspections and new regulations on items taken from the reagent stores.

Alistair listened keenly, nodding even as a line furrowed its way into his brow.

"Listen," he said at last, leaning forward with an earnest expression writ across his handsome, bronze-stubbled face. "I don't want more _punitive _actions taken against the mages. I just want them to be kept safe. They're Fereldan citizens, which means that their wellbeing is ultimately_ my_ responsibility."

No king had ever been so explicit. Flora, unable to stop herself, stretched out her hand across the table. Alistair reached out to catch her fingers and brought them to his mouth, pecking them with swift affection.

The next item for discussion was whether there was some magical way of purifying the Blight-tainted soil. Morrigan had gone to investigate the method purportedly used by the Korcari tribes, but Alistair also wanted to pursue a line of inquiry within the Circle itself.

Glass vials of Blighted soil from both Lothering and South Reach were brought out from satchels and placed on the table. Various other arcane and alchemical supplies were produced with quick efficiency by attending Tranquil. Alembics, crucibles, mortars and pestles were set up alongside a variety of colourful phials, some of them bubbling away without any discernible source of heat.

"Sweetheart," said Alistair, and there was a note of apology in his tone. "My love, I don't think it's a good idea for you to be in here during the experiments. In case the baby inhales some _miasmic fumes _by proxy. Would you wait outside, just for a bit? There's benches in the passage."

Flora briefly considered voicing protest – the alchemical paraphernalia looked far more interesting than staring at a wall with only a dour-faced Templar for company. However, she conceded that Alistair probably had a point.

There was a general shuffling as the mage council rose to echo the movement of the queen. Alistair walked Flora to the door, ducking to kiss her in the centre of the forehead.

"I'll try and speed this along as quickly as possible," he murmured, gazing down at her. "You know how mages like to pontificate."

Flora had no idea what he meant but nodded anyway, flashing him a wan smile in response.

As she left, two Templars rose to discreetly follow in her wake; Alistair's eyes narrowed like a hawk as he watched them go.

"May we sit down now, Alistair?" Wynne asked, pointedly. "My knees aren't what they used to be.”

”Oh, right. Yes, of course."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: It was nice to write Alistair being more authoritative – I'm not sure if everyone agrees with my characterisation, but I think it's perfectly possible for the shy and insecure Alistair from the beginning of Origins to mature and develop into a confident leader. It's a character arc/development that I personally prefer, anyway! Anyway, all this stuff about senior enchanter meetings is pure headcanon, but I love me some good headcanon, lol


	106. Flora The Archmage?

The passageway was like any other within the Circle: curved, high-ceilinged and with a dizzying geometric pattern set into the tiled floor. Flora sat down on a stone bench outside the council chamber, with one hand resting at the apex of her squirming stomach.

"You're full of energy today," she said to her belly, feeling a wriggle in response to her voice. "Did you have a restful night?"

"The standard six hours, as per regulation," came a muffled reply, as one of the Templar guards misinterpreted the direction of her question. Immediately afterwards, the Templar realised his mistake and flushed crimson behind his helm.

Flora, initially taken aback, was kind enough not to point out the guard's error.

"Six hours?" she repeated, turning her pale gaze towards him. "Do you think that's long enough? Wynne says that _eight _is best. I slept for _ten _the other day."

The Templar let out a grunt, suspiciously eyeing the mark on the back of Flora's hand as it rested on top of her swollen stomach. Seconds later, his gaze inched upwards to where one elongated arc of the scar on her collarbone protruded above the neckline of her tunic.

Flora understood that people were curious as to the _type_ of marks left on one's body by an Archdemon's soul, but she felt vaguely uncomfortable with such scrutiny when it originated from a Templar. It reminded her of the miserable month she had spent in Revanloch, in mourning for the destruction of her spirits, and for the loss of her own magic.

Heaving herself to her feet, Flora decided to have a little _explore _of these lofty quarters that had been restricted to her as a junior apprentice. The two Templars, exchanging a look of mild alarm, began to shuffle in the queen's wake as she padded along the corridor.

Flora paused beside the First Enchanter's study, recalling how she had once waited here for Duncan to come and fetch her; staff and travel cloak resting on her lap. Continuing around the curve in the corridor, she averted her eyes from the magically sealed entrance to the Harrowing chamber.

_I still don't remember what happened during my own Harrowing, _she thought to herself. _I remember the demon appearing and then – nothing. I suppose Valour killed it for me._

There came a little squirm from within her stomach. Flora patted it absentmindedly, wandering further along the curving corridor. Muffled voices echoed from ahead, their conversation too distant to discern.

A cluster of mages – along with a requisite scowling gaggle of Templar – were gathered in the entrance of a side-chamber; chattering like a flock of sparrows. Flora sidled forwards, curious as to what they were so transfixed by.

"What's going on?" she whispered to one rotund, bearded man who kept hopping from foot to foot excitedly.

"Enchanter Amell has manifested skeins of entropic magic without a foci," the man hissed back, then blanched as he caught sight of the question's progenitor. "Flor – Flora – wait, no - _Queen Florence!"_

Flora recognised the man – they had often vied for first place in the queue at dinner – and offered a smile that emerged more as a grimace. A ripple of whispers passed through the crowd, and more heads turned towards Flora as news of her arrival spread. She recognised a handful of them – several were former apprentices who had increased their seniority after she had left the Circle.

_That girl with the curly hair used to poke candles into my ribs to try and provoke me into lighting them. She thought I was faking my limited abilities to seem more docile to the Templars._

_That elf used to make fun of the way I spoke._

_There's someone who left an actual vase on my pillow!_

In the face of their stares and scrutiny, Flora suddenly wished that she had not left the safety of the bench. She wanted nothing more than to return to Alistair's side, to be in the company of those who actually valued her.

_Come on, you coward, _she thought firmly, willing herself into lifting her chin. _Where's that Herring grit? Less shrimp, more shark!_

Straightening her shoulders and letting her belly precede her like the majestic prow of a ship, Flora sailed through the crowd to take up a position in the doorway. The other mages parted before her, still murmuring in fascination amongst themselves.

Arnette Amell had not allowed herself to become distracted by the new arrival. She was standing in the centre of a windowless hexagonal chamber, which contained no furniture save for a small pedestal at its centre. She was clad in the maroon robes of a senior enchanter – the colour fresh and bright, as though the garb had been freshly bestowed – and her dark hair was caught up in the usual uncompromising bun. In spite of the fracas at the doorway, her face bore a look of utter, unwavering focus; her features in still contrast to the precise movements of her arms. Her fingers wove about her as though conducting some invisible choir, carving glittering runic patterns through the air. Dark skeins of energy, varying in shade from rich black to inky navy, followed in the wake of her gesticulating hands. The occasional flash of crimson crackled between her fingers like localised lightning, reflected against the pale fixedness of her face.

"Don't get too close, your majesty," muttered one of the Templar guards, voice muffled behind his helmet. "Entropic magic is inherently unstable."

"It's beautiful," Flora breathed, resting her cheek against the stone frame of the doorway and watching in fascination.

_Entropic magic is the opposite of creation magic, which is what I use - used to use. The other mages used to have a hard time even casting entropy spells in my presence; my whole body was like a dampener._

Gradually, the other mages overcame their initial excitement at the reappearance of the _Vase, _crowding at her back to watch Arnette Amell's clever conjurations. Flora spent almost a half-candle gazing in fascination at the shifting veins of magical energy; though she was so disconnected from the Fade that she could not even taste the tingle of the arcane on her tongue.

"Queen Florence?"

It was one of the Tranquil, their bland enquiry breaking the crowd's awed silence. Flora turned around, startled, having also been absorbed in Amell's demonstration.

"They're ready for you in the council chamber."

Flora tore her gaze wistfully from the skilful display, following the Tranquil back along the corridor with the familiar thud of metallic boots in her wake.

As she entered the council chamber, those seated rose once more to acknowledge her arrival. Alistair stopped his pacing – he had been treading indentations in the flagstones between the table and the bookshelf – and crossed the distance between them in a handful of strides.

Flora smiled up at him, having missed her best friend's presence during the half-candle that they had been parted. Alistair reached down to catch her fingers in his, bringing her hand to his mouth to kiss each of her knuckles in turn.

"We were just talking about you, sweetheart," he murmured, touching her cheek before dropping his arm. "Come and sit."

"Talking about me?" Flora repeated warily, following him back to the table and settling herself down in her cushion-padded seat. "Oh, dear."

Irving nodded, quietly. His clever, milky blue eyes settled on the queen as she reached for her water-cup, lifting the vessel to her undeniably Cousland-shaped mouth.

"We were just discussing the fact that after the Blight – if you'd kept your abilities, naturally - you would have been granted the rank of _Archmage_."

It took all of Flora's restraint not to spit her mouthful of water across the polished wooden surface of the table. Instead, she let the cup drop with a clatter and stared in raw incredulity across at the First Enchanter.

"_Whaaa-?!"_

"Florence, what have we said about those nonsensical exclamations?" Wynne chided, briskly. "And it would have been a perfectly reasonable position to bestow upon you."

"Reasonable? _How?!" _retorted Flora, astonished. "I could only ever do two things! I couldn't even light a _candle._"

"But your healing could neutralise the taint itself," Irving countered, softly. "And your shield was strong enough to not only withstand my own channelled flame, but also the incendiary breath of an Archdemon."

Flora blinked a moment, her brow furrowed in a series of creases.

"But… I could only do those things because of my spirits," she said, in a small voice. "I know _now_ that they must have been powerful, but… still. I was just the vessel through which they channelled."

"Yes: a spirit healer," Irving replied, equally quietly. "One of rare potency. And the title of _Archmage _is of course inapplicable now, but I thought you'd like to know, nonetheless."

Flora remained quiet for several long moments, her eyes pale and unfathomable as the Waking Sea. Alistair, who could read her ambiguous features like an open book, knew that his wife was drawing upon her Cousland heritage; summoning a righteous indignation that a humble Herring peasant would never think to express.

When she spoke at last, there was a steely vein in her tone that made those present at the table sit up and take notice.

"Do you know how many times I had to sit through _Elementary Elemental _class when I was an apprentice here?" she asked, soft and low. "Actually, don't guess – I don't know the answer. I stopped counting when I ran out of fingers and toes."

She tapped her bitten fingernails on the table, a rhythmic staccato ringing out against the wood. The plump, milky pearl on her fourth finger rested snugly above the woven golden rope of the wedding band; glinting in the light from the suspended candelabras.

"I spent more time cleaning the corridors than I did in the classroom. All my instructors thought that I was _ignorant_ because I couldn't read, and_ incompetent_ because I couldn't even light a candle. Which is why I find it a little strange that now – a year later – I'm worthy of the title _Archmage?"_

Flora took a breath, voicing thoughts that had been on her mind from the moment she had set foot once more in Kinloch Hold.

"I should have been taught how to read," she said, quietly. "How to write. And I shouldn't have been made to sit in the same class over and over, for _four years."_

There was a long pause, while the senior enchanters avoided looking at one another. Wynne flashed Flora a surreptitious, oddly proud smile.

"The Circle failed you, Flora," admitted Irving, who had suspected that the new queen might express thoughts of this nature. "I personally apologise for oversights made during your time here."

"Thank you, but I don't want an apology," replied Flora, patiently. "I also don't want anyone else to feel the way that _I _felt when I lived here, if their magic doesn't quite work in the _usual _way. Something needs to change."

"A mentoring scheme might work," Wynne spoke up, quietly. "Where new apprentices are assigned to a senior enchanter. They could meet once a month - you could _definitely _spare the time, Sweeney, your book is almost complete – and any issues or concerns that the apprentice had could be addressed."

Flora gave a nod, suddenly very weary. She had spoken out and said her piece; revealing an old hurt that she had suppressed during the Blight but which had emerged with a vengeance as they had neared the Circle. Speaking out with fervour and eloquence was far more draining than it had been a few months prior, a state of affairs that she blamed firmly on the occupant of her stomach.

Alistair, glancing sideways at his best friend, could visibly see her wilting; shoulders drooping and fingers curling limply in her lap. She was a fraction paler than normal, the flecks of tan freckle standing out more prominently on her nose. Clearing his throat, he rose to his feet and went to stand behind Flora's chair, his hands resting gently on her shoulders.

"Forgive us," he said abruptly, though the tone of his voice stated well enough that he required nobody's clemency. "We'll have lunch in our quarters, and then the queen needs to lie down before we begin the tour. She's been on her feet all day."

"Flora has been on her feet for the thirty weeks that she's borne the babe," Wynne said, softly. "Nobody would begrudge the poor girl a rest. Have a nap, child, and take as long as you need."

Flora shot the senior enchanter a grateful look; at that moment, the offer of a nap was a greater gift than the bounty of several nations. The edges of her vision were beginning to blur, dark spots encroaching in the corners of her eyes. Irving acquiesced readily – hosting royalty was a stressful experience, and he too was grateful for a break in formalities. He agreed to have lunch brought up to the guest chambers, and for the tour to recommence once the queen was rested.

The queen herself did not remember the journey back to the guest bedchamber. Flora was so weary and light-headed that it took all her concentration merely to place one foot before the other on the flagstones. Halfway there, Alistair hoisted her into his arms, not trusting the steadiness of her legs. This was a most timely intervention, since Flora's vision contracted just as they crossed the threshold into the bedchamber. She registered Alistair's sharp inhalation of dismay and then the world slipped gently into darkness, like the receding tide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Flora you need to stop overdoing it, haha! Either it's that, or one of the twins is pressing up against some important blood vessel, lol.
> 
> I thought it was a nice contrast – and also quite poignant – to have her watching this other mage effortlessly drawing skeins of magic from the Fade. We've met Arnette Amell before – she took part in the final battle!
> 
> It was also nice to have Flo voice her complaint – she doesn't often complain, but she was treated poorly at the Circle (or neglected, at the very least). The Archmage thing is based on an achievement you get at level 20 in game. Full disclosure: I never G OT this achievement because the moment I found out that my mage couldn't marry Alistair (I went into the game with no spoilers so I didn't find out until the Landsmeet) I was like fuuuuucckkkk that and rerolled with a Cousland, hahaha. Anyway, Flora is still re-learning her confidence during this sequel story... it took a serious blow with the loss of her spirits.


	107. Unbalanced Humours

Chapter 110: Unbalanced Humours

Flora awoke several minutes later, sprawled flat on her back on the bed in the guest chamber. Her bare feet were elevated incongruously upon Zevran's shoulders, his fingers gripping her ankles in place. He flashed a wicked grin, dark eyes flashing in the sunlight filtering through the leaded glass.

"I always knew I'd have your legs over my shoulders one day, _nena," _he purred, darting her a salacious look.

Wynne's chiding voice rose immediately in the background. Flora decided that the situation was _far _too peculiar to comprehend, and slipped easily back into unconsciousness.

The second time she awoke, her feet were still propped on Zevran's shoulders, but there was no saucy comment emerging from the elf's lips this time. Instead, he smiled gently down at her, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes creasing.

"Hello, _carina. _Alistair, you can stop wearing grooves into the flagstones now."

Alistair immediately lunged across the room from where he had been pacing an agitated patrol before the hearth. He crouched beside the bed and took her hand, pressing his lips feverishly to her knuckles.

"Darling," he breathed, his pupils shrunken into pinpricks of fear. "How are you feeling?"

"A bit odd," Flora admitted, feeling something cool dripping down her neck. She canted her gaze to see Wynne leaning over with a square of damp linen, pressing the compress against her forehead. "Did I faint again?"

The senior enchanter nodded briskly, going on to pat the wet material against each of Flora's flushed cheeks in turn.

"As I've tried to reassure Alistair, it's not _unheard _of for women to faint even in this last six weeks of carrying a child. As your womb is expanding, it's pressing against the vessels and courses of your body. It restricts the flow of your humours, and causes them to become unbalanced."

There was a vigorous and visible squirm from Flora's belly, as though the occupants knew that they were the cause of their mother's inconvenience. Alistair reached out reflexively to stroke his callused palm over the rounded mound of flesh, his face still aged years with anxiety.

"My sweet girl!"

"Well, can't I _balance _myself out again?" Flora asked plaintively as Zevran lowered her feet to the blankets. "I don't want to be a person that _faints. _I am a tough Herring barnacle!"

"That depends," replied Wynne, shooting her a stern glance. "What have you had to _eat _today?"

"Um," she said vaguely, aware of Alistair's stare. "A pear."

"And?"

"And… some rye bread?"

"Are you asking me, or telling me?"

"Euermm- "

"_Flora!" _

This anguished admonition came from Alistair, who was gazing at his wife with the soulful, accusatory eyes of a kicked Mabari. Flora dropped her eyes to her lap, pleating her tunic between her fingers.

"Please, my love," he entreated, reaching out to clasp her slender fingers between his palms. "If you don't like the food here, just _say_, and I'll have whatever you want brought to your… to your very lap, sweetheart. Peaches from Rivain, cauliflower from the Anderfels – whatever you want, Lo, so long as you _eat."_

Alistair pressed his lips to her bitten nails and Flora immediately felt guilty. She allowed her body to slump gracelessly sideways until her head was in his lap, fingers curling against the soft calfskin of his breeches. He moved his hands to cradle her head, tracing the curve of her ear with his thumb.

Wynne's voice softened as she gazed down at the newlyweds; at the weary young mother curled up on the blankets and Alistair's anxious face hovering above her.

"Why don't we delay the afternoon's schedule for two hours?" she murmured, gliding across to the window and drawing the curtains shut with a soft rustle of costly fabric. "Enough time for you to have a nap, and _eat _something."

Alistair gave a nod, shooting a grateful glance up at the senior enchanter.

"Thanks, Wynne."

Before he took his leave with the elder mage, Zevran sidled over to the bed and touched Flora's knee; soft and affectionate.

"I am going to ransack the kitchens in search of something that might alleviate your suffering, _nena," _the elf murmured, softly. "I have a few ideas."

In response, Flora swiped her bare foot against the former Crow's leather-clad thigh, too weary to vocalise her gratitude.

"Thanks, Zev," Alistair replied, leaning back against the cushions and exhaling. "I appreciate it."

Finally, the door was quietly closed and they were alone in the chamber; which was lit only by a sliver of muted sunlight creeping through a gap in the curtains. The king watched the dust motes suspended in the air, caught in emanations of heat from smouldering hearth. The next moment, he heard a small sniff from his lap. Looking down, he saw matching trails of tears trickling down his best friend's cheeks. Immediately Alistair bent low over his new wife, ducking his head as close to hers as he could manage.

"Sweetheart?"

"Sorry," Flora mumbled against his thigh, a distinct tremor in her voice. "I feel all _unbalanced. _It's been harder than I thought… coming back to the Circle. Worse than Lothering, in a way."

She twisted her head to gaze anxiously up at him, saltwater pooling in the base of her grave, grey irises.

"I remember how ashamed I felt when I first arrived. Nobody could understand the way I spoke because my accent was so thick. I couldn't read the dormitory and bunk assignment I'd been given. I wandered around for hours with my bedding, and then… and then I just went to sleep on the flagstones beneath the sink."

"Sweetheart," said Alistair, distressed by proxy. "My poor darling."

"I didn't mind it," Flora confessed, reaching up to wipe her wet eyelashes with a trembling finger. "It reminded me of sleeping on the floor b-back in Herring."

Alistair bowed to kiss her on the forehead; his lips lingering against her skin.

"My love," he said, reaching down to pull the blankets up over her body. "Everybody here owes you their lives. First, you stopped the Templars from performing the Rite of Annulment. Then… you killed the Archdemon and ended the Blight."

Flora let out a miserable sniff, letting her cheek rest against his muscled thigh in lieu of a pillow.

"Tell me one of your stories," she whispered back, seeking the comfort of her husband's low, kind voice.

"What kind of story, Lola?"

"One from the south. That I haven't heard before."

Alistair thought for a moment, absentmindedly winding thick strands of crimson hair around his fingers. Beyond the bedchamber rose the sounds of Templars going about their daily routine; yet the thick walls muffled all but the occasional barked command or loud sheathing of sword.

"There was once a Tevinter emperor who was born with donkey ears," he said at last, his words echoing in the stillness of the shadowed air. "To his great shame and embarrassment. Only the emperor's barber knew about the donkey ears, and he was sworn to secrecy. Yet the barber was going mad with the desire to tell someone, and so he went down to the bank of the Nocen sea and… he told the water-reeds. Unfortunately, the next day, some travelling musicians cut down the reeds to make themselves flutes. They arrived at the palace and began to play their flutes for the emperor. Instead of music, the flutes sang out _the emperor has donkey ears! the emperor has donkey ears!"_

Flora gazed up at him with eyes dreaming and distant; picturing the emperor with the donkey ears and his tell-tale barber.

"I wonder if it's based on _real-life?" _she breathed, yawning mid-sentence. "A real-life emperor."

"Probably, knowing the shenanigans those Tevinter mages get up to," Alistair commented, drily. "To be honest, I'm surprised _I_ didn't end up with a pair of ass ears – courtesy of Morrigan – at some point during our travels."

Flora smiled up at him, pleating the blanket into absent-minded folds.

"Now I've got to tell you a tale from the north," she said, earnestly. "You should always give a story back when you receive one."

The king leaned back against the cushions, fingers stroking rhythmically over his queen's small and distinctly _human _ears.

"Tell me, my heart."

"There was once a god named Caradoc, who lived at the bottom of the Waking Sea," she began, her words slurring slightly with drowsiness. "And he grew jealous of an old man who lived on the shore, who had three beautiful daughters. One day, Caradoc decided to steal the three girls, and so he sent a giant wave onto the shore, which swept them away. Caradoc was content but the old man was distraught. The god felt remorse for his wickedness, but the girls had become too… too _changed _for him to send back. Instead, Caradoc turned them into seagulls, birds that belong to both the sea _and _the land. And whenever the old man went walking on the shore and called out the names of his daughters, three gulls would fly to him from the sea."

Flora finished her story with another yawn, nestling her cheek against Alistair's thigh.

"All our northern stories are depressing," she mumbled, eyes closing. "I never realised that before. I think I preferred your one, with the donkey-ears emperor."

Alistair bent his neck to kiss the top of her head, made dizzy by a sudden potent surge of affection.

"Well, I'll give you a funny story in exchange for each of your sad ones, love."

Flora fell asleep first, her head resting on his knee and her fingers tangled against his palm. Alistair dozed on and off for an hour, the room drifting intermittently out of focus. Although it was not warm in the bedchamber – nowhere in the Circle tower could ever be described as _warm _– there was a certain lethargy that arose from the darkness, and the smouldering wood in the hearth.

Alistair awoke with a start a short time later, with the room bathed in incongruous afternoon daylight and the pressure of his wife's head lifted from his lap. Flora was sitting on the edge of the bed, fiddling with something on her knee.

Feeling his fingers swiping affectionately at her rear, she turned as best as she was able and smiled at him.

"I've been making us sandwiches," she said, cheerfully. "Do you want cheese by itself, or cheese with red pepper? Whatever we don't eat, I'm going to put in my pockets for later."

Sure enough, resting on the blankets nearby was a precarious tower of sandwiches. Alistair shuffled himself over to sit carefully beside her, swinging his feet to the ground.

"These look delicious, baby. I'll have a cheese one. Red pepper is a bit too spicy for my Fereldan guts to handle."

"One can become accustomed to anything, with sufficient practice," wound a familiar, teasing voice across the room. "I will be brave and _dare _the red pepper. I am curious as to _quite _how bland your home-grown varieties are."

As Zevran sauntered across the room, both Alistair and Flora stared at him in astonishment.

"How did you get in so stealthily?" the king demanded, eyes wide. "That door shrieks like the undead whenever it's opened."

"Skills, _mi rey," _Zevran replied with a deliberately elusive grin, sitting down on Flora's other side. She duly handed him a cheese and red-pepper sandwich; a clumsy but well-meaning effort hacked together with a butter knife.

For several minutes, they ate their sandwiches in companionable silence; crumbs falling to their laps as they listened to the daily machinations of the Circle moving around them. Flora, aware of Alistair's pointed stare, ate three sandwiches in a row and tucked two more into her pockets for later.

Zevran brushed his fingers clean once he had finished, then reached into the pocket of his tunic and drew out something long and knobbled. It was pale, furred and extremely phallic in appearance.

Alistair nearly choked on his last mouthful of cheese, eyes wide.

"Maker's Breath, Zev? What in the void is_ that?!"_

Flora, rather immaturely, let out a cackle. The elf shot her a wicked little grin, before assuming a more reproving expression.

"It's _ginger, _you filthy-minded children! I obtained it after bribing a pretty kitchen-maid and ransacking a few sacks of mouldy vegetables. It's meant to be good for your stomach, _nena. _Might help with the belly-ache."

Flora took the pale, unappetising object from his slender hands and eyed it, her misgivings clear. The next moment, she had taken a huge bite from the end of the root. Her face contorted as she chewed, and she turned an accusatory stare on her elven companion.

Zevran had to stifle a smile, assuming an equally grave demeanour.

"Perhaps try grating it into tea next time, _mi sirenita," _he murmured, with a deliberately straight face. "It can be a little _unpleasant_ when eaten raw."

Some time later, refreshed and replenished, the royal couple were taken on a tour of the newly refurbished Circle. They were shown a half-dozen seemingly identical libraries, two high-ceilinged alchemical laboratories, a small chapel which appeared unusually sparse even for a Fereldan Chantry.

"Much of our statues and wall-hangings were destroyed during the – the _incident_," the Chantry sister explained, portentous in her lofty hat. "We're waiting for Denerim's Grand Chantry to send over some of their surplus _décor_."

"Why don't you take _The Martyrdom of Andraste _from our guest-chamber?" Alistair suggested, thinking on the graphic tapestry that he and Zevran had covered over with a blanket. "I think it would look good in that empty archway over there!"

Irving nodded for a nearby Tranquil secretary to make a note.

"A sound idea, King Alistair. I'll have one of my own favourite tapestries brought to your chamber to replace it: _The Dismemberment Of Count Silaven."_

"That… that won't be necessary," Alistair said hastily as Flora's jaw dropped beside him. "_Really. _Thanks, though."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Both of those stories are actually old Welsh folk tales! I remember hearing them when I was little. I don't know why I like putting in stories within my own story so much, it seems to be a recurring theme! I think there must be tons of them embedded in random chapters by now, haha. But we have to remember that in a pre-technology age – especially when books were still so expensive – people would have carried around a ton of stories in their heads. It was a form of entertainment after all! So I suppose it's actually quite logical that both Flo and Alistair can recant a whole bunch! 
> 
> Incidentally if I leave it this long before updating message me abuse on tumblr. I’m a lazy sickness and I need prompting XD I have ALL the chapters good to go, I just have to upload!!


	108. Elementary Elemental 101

For the next two candle-lengths, the royal company was shown around a number of chambers that Flora had not even known _existed_ within the Circle Tower. There was a lead-lined vault filled with runic artefacts guarded by a half-dozen grim-faced Templar; a chamber empty save for an oddly-elongated skull resting on a plinth; a cunning indoor garden with perpetual rain falling from the vaulted ceiling.

One small room, no larger than a bath-chamber, was lined on three sides with stepped stone shelves. Upon these flat surfaces rested hundreds of candles, of various size and thickness, some in holsters and others resting naked on the stone. Each one was unlit, their wicks still pale and long. In the centre of the chamber, a multi-faceted focusing lens was set within a specially designed plinth.

"What's _this?" _Teagan asked at last, unable to hold his tongue any longer.

Irving made a swift gesture up to the ceiling, where there was a hollowed opening made in the stone, no larger than a copper coin.

"When _Toth _intersects with _Bellitanus _at the forty-seventh degree during the third lunar cycle, when the atmospheric conditions are comprised of a certain chemical _balance _– namely three parts phosphorus to one part mercury- "

The First Enchanter continued in this vein for several minutes, while Teagan fervently wished that he had not asked.

" – then a ray of moonlight will _penetrate _the oculus, hit the bronze lens below and _ignite_ one of the candles!" finished Irving triumphantly, as the bann stifled a yawn.

"Has it ever happened?" breathed Flora, gazing around in awe at the mass of unlit candles.

"Well, not in the past seven hundred and thirty eight years," admitted Irving, with a little shrug. "Which is when they first started keeping track."

As they continued along the corridor, Zevran nudged Alistair's elbow, pointedly.

"What a waste of a perfectly good chamber," he whispered, quirking an eyebrow. "I could put it to much better use."

"They're _mages," _replied Alistair_, _under his breath. "Collecting strange objects and preparing for ancient rituals is what they _do."_

"If it were up to me, I'd use it as a storage chamber for all my spare blades and knives," Zevran suggested, a wistful gleam to his eye. "Polished Antivan mahogany shelving and oak-moss in pots to soak up the damp."

"Excellent idea! Let's suggest that to Greagoir," the king said, with a little snort. _"'Knight-Commander, why not turn this room into a space for the mages to store all their knives, blades, pole-arms, pick-axes and other assorted weaponry?' _I'm sure he'd _love _that."

"Love what?" asked Flora, who had been eavesdropping.

"_You," _replied Alistair, momentarily forgetting that they were on a formal tour and plastering the top of his wife's head with kisses. "_Mm_, my gorgeous girl, I love _you._ Have another sandwich."

The final activity of the afternoon was observing one of the apprentice classes, in which Connor would be partaking. They descended to the second level, eastern quarter; where a half-dozen classrooms were segmented neatly between the dormitories.

"The class has just started," murmured Wynne, gesturing towards a nearby, Templar-guarded door. "There are desks at the back for you to sit at, including cushions for you, Florence."

Alistair paused for a moment, wondering if Flora wanted to lead the way – since, after all, this was familiar territory to her. A quick glance sideways established the opposite. Flora was gazing intently at her own belly (she hadn't been able to see her feet in months) with shoulders hunched, pale and unhappy. He had seen his wife face down Loghain in the Landsmeet chamber, take the platform before ten thousand troops, and lift her chin in defiance towards the Archdemon itself. Yet now – before this place of so many small humiliations - she appeared to have lost all her surety, lost as an unmoored boat.

The king inhaled, then reached out and captured her fingers; squeezing them determinedly against his palm in their own familiar anchor.

"Come on, my love," he said under his breath, rubbing his thumb in encouraging circles over her knuckle. "We'll go in together."

Flora took a deep breath to match his, her eyes searching her best friend's face. Then – to his relief – she nodded and raised her chin, returning the pressure on his fingers.

As the king and queen of Ferelden entered the classroom, the instructor at the chalkboard stopped mid-sentence, the occupants of the neatly arranged desks twisting around to stare.

"Don't get up," Alistair said hastily, envisioning piles of textbooks and reams of parchment crashing to the flagstones. "Please, carry on as you normally would."

As Wynne had indicated, there were several empty desks at the back of the room. Alistair, Flora, Zevran and Teagan all duly took a seat as the maroon-clad instructor cleared his throat in an effort to regain some composure. Connor Guerrin, who was seated in the second row back, twisted his head around and gave his uncle a surreptitious wave.

The classroom itself was relatively plain, with little in the way of furniture save for the instructor's desk, chalkboard and the rows of desks. The lack of potentially flammable décor was a necessity, bearing in mind the nature of the class material and the inexperience of the gathered apprentices. They ranged in age from Connor's eleven years to late adolescence, each one clad in the drab navy garb of an unHarrowed apprentice. The majority were human; three elves were seated near the instructor's desk.

The instructor himself was a young man barely in his twenties, with a long chestnut braid and a sallow, angular face. Alistair's first thought was that the man was very _young _for a teacher. He wondered if the previous instructor had been killed during the abomination crisis, and a replacement hastily sought.

Flora, however, could guess why the young man had been made an instructor, and it had only part to do with quickly filling a vacancy.

_That's Gethin Amos, _she thought to herself, surprised at how quickly the name rose to the surface of her memory. _He was the most gifted junior mage in my class. I'm not surprised they've made him a teacher. _

_He was the one who first started calling me the Vase. _

"The title for today is _Elementary Elemental: Beginner's Pyromancy," _announced the instructor, several beads of perspiration breaking out on his forehead. "Make sure you underline it and write in _b- black _ink-pen."

There was an odd, distinctly discernible tremor to the teacher's voice that the more perceptive students picked up on; several heads lifting to dart curious glances at their sweating instructor.

Meanwhile at the back, Teagan was watching Connor closely, feeling a small glow of pride at his nephew's studiousness and concentration. Zevran – who was not interested in magic in the slightest – was trying to work out which of the Templar guards was the handsomest; a difficult task considering their full-face helmets. Alistair was half-listening to the instructor, shooting frequent glances sideways to where his wife was sitting on the adjacent desk.

Flora almost wanted to laugh: _Elementary Elemental _was the class that she had taken for four years without passing. Each season, she had watched a new set of students graduate to the next level of tutelage: _Exploring the Fade: Spirit Magic._

_At least I don't have to write anything down this time, _she thought to herself, letting her pale gaze settle on the increasingly nervous instructor as he wrote a series of introductory sentences on the board._ They won't ask me to come to the front and light a candle._

_And I'm pretty sure they won't banish me to the corridor with mop and bucket._

The instructor continued to scribe notes for the students to take down, shooting another nervous glance over at the royal couple as he put chalk to blackboard. His bright blue eyes met Flora's grey stare and he dropped his chalk; the white stick rolling away beneath the desk. When Gethin stooped to pick it up, he hit his forehead on the wooden edge – several students in the front row stifled a giggle.

"The man is perspiring enough to water a stable of horses," Teagan murmured to Alistair, who gave a slightly confused nod.

Flora realised, with a start, that Gethin was petrified_. _Her past tormentor had been confronted with the worst-case scenario for any youthful bully – the return of his old target, elevated far above their previous station. Now, the _Vase _sat before him with the king at her side and a hero's metaphorical mantle resting on her shoulders.

"And – as with any other spell involving the c-conjuration of _flame, _intense caution m-must be taken," the instructor continued, thoroughly disconcerted by Flora's emotionless, Waking Sea-cold stare. "Always keep water on hand to extinguish any mishaps- "

As Gethin turned, the corner of his elbow caught the bowl of water resting on the desk. It fell to the flagstones with a splintering of porcelain, water spilling out in a puddle. The instructor muttered a curse under his breath as several appalled gasps broke out amongst the class.

"Shall I fetch another receptacle?" Zevran offered, a wicked, glittering edge to his tone. The elf had put two and two together; having heard much of Flora's experience in the Circle over the past eight months. "A cup? A beaker? A _vase, _perhaps_?"_

Gethin, who had just gathered up the remnants of the bowl, promptly dropped them again. More shocked snickers broke out from the class of delighted apprentices. Alistair, just coming to the same realisation as Zevran, had to restrain himself from glaring at the hapless instructor. Fortunately, professionalism won out and he managed to retain a somewhat neutral expression.

The kind Flora – who was not one to gloat at someone else's discomfort - suddenly felt rather sorry for her old tormentor. Knowing that her face's natural cast was a cold, haughty stare, she caught the instructor's eye and deliberately smiled at him. Gethin blinked back at her in astonishment, fingers working anxiously in the sleeves of his new instructor's robes.

"You should all be listening to your teacher," Flora said reprovingly, raising her voice to allow its distinctive cadence to ring though the air. Sure enough, the class of apprentices twisted around to gaze at her; this girl who had once sat where they themselves were sitting, and who now bore the title of _Hero of Ferelden_.

"Instructor Gethin was the most _talented_ of our class when I was a student here," she continued, in a northern, typically blunt statement of fact. "Above and beyond any other apprentice. So I would pay heed to him, if I were you."

The wide-eyed class turned back to their instructor; his credibility restored. Gethin looked astonished for a split-second, but he was a sharp young man who was well aware of the life-buoy that had been cast him. Clearing his throat and gathering his composure, he lifted his chalk once more to the board.

Alistair, despite enjoying the sight of Flora's old nemesis stumbling over his words and dropping things, was grown enough to also see the wisdom in his best friend's actions. With unnecessary stealth – after all, he was hardly about to be thrown out of the classroom – he leaned across the gap between their desks and pressed his lips squarely to her cheek. Flora shot him a shy, sideways smile, a pink flush creeping up her throat.

"_No kissing in class!" _chided Zevran, then let out a wicked little cackle.

Once an extensive portion of the class had been spent scribing notes onto parchment, the apprentices lined up at the instructor's desk to demonstrate their lighting of the candle. Their skill varied from the adept, who required only a few second's worth of focus to ignite the wick; to the less experienced, who glowered down at the candle for minutes at a time, beads of sweat erupting on their foreheads. Sometimes they managed to conjure a spark or a little column of smoke; on occasion, nothing at all would happen. The Templars posted at the classroom entrance watched all attempts with narrowed eyes; fingers not quite _on _the hilts of their blades, but not far from them either. A bucket of water – a necessary safety precaution – had been placed near the chalkboard.

Flora smiled at a small elven girl who had glowered fruitlessly at the wick for several long minutes, catching the girl's eye as she returned to her seat.

"This was usually when I'd be sent into the corridor with a mop and bucket," she whispered to Alistair, their hands entwined in the space between their adjacent desks. "Though this _one_ time, the instructor made me stand up there for nearly half the lesson trying to light the candle. I burst a blood vessel in my eye _glaring _at the stupid thing!"

He squeezed her hand in wordless sympathy, watching Connor Guerrin lift his chin and stride determinedly forwards. Teagan sat up in his chair, watching his young nephew closely.

Sure enough, Connor lit his candle in a matter of seconds, earning himself a nod of approval from Gethin. Connor glanced over his shoulder to check that the royal company were watching, unable to stifle a beam.

"Nice to see the lad taking pride in his abilities," murmured Teagan in an undertone to both king and queen. "And to have him hone them in a _controlled _environment_."_

_As opposed to becoming possessed and inadvertently summoning the dead. _

The bann did not need to vocalise the final part of his thought – the sentiment was reflected in both Alistair and Flora's minds. Alistair almost clapped the young Guerrin as he returned to his seat; remembering just in time that they were in a _classroom. _Instead he mimicked a convincing round of applause, his palms stopping just short of colliding. Flora beamed, feeling a squirming from within her stomach as something woke up and stretched within its cramped quarters.

"Well done, son," Teagan mouthed quietly, smiling at his nephew as Connor retook his seat. "Very impressive."

Once the session was finished, the apprentices gave a dutiful recitation of thanks to their instructor. As they filed out of the classroom, they snuck curious glances down at the king and especially at the _queen, _who had once been one of their own. The moment that the students had passed into the corridor the neat line spilled into a babbling crowd; excitedly comparing observations on their royal visitors.

"_I heard the king used to be a Templar! Wouldn't mind him watching over me for a few hours... "_

"_Well, I heard that the queen was so advanced in this class that she set fire to the desk when they asked her to light a candle!"_

"_Who told you that, nug-brain? Everyone knows that the lady Florence was a healer."_

"_I don't even think she _passed_ this class."_

Gethin Amos replaced the chalk and pointer within his desk, visibly composing himself and taking a deep breath. Alistair watched him through narrowed eyes, less inclined to be civil now that the young apprentices were no longer present. The air prickled in the damp classroom; a combination of arcane residue and unspoken tension.

Teagan had been told less about Flora's experience in the Circle, but had made some inferences of his own. Clearing his throat, he made to speak first as the instructor approached with measured strides.

"That was a fascinating experience, ser. It seems as though the classroom situation is very carefully monitored to ensure the safety of the students."

"_Yes – _yes," Gethin replied, needing to repeat his agreement as the word emerged an octave higher than usual. "The well-being of our apprentices is our first p-priority."

"Are any of your apprentices ever _punished_ for not performing in class?" Alistair chimed in, the outward blandness of his voice unable to disguise the steel at its heart. "Like the little elven lass who couldn't light the candle today. Would she be penalised? Sent to do chores, for example?"

"No," croaked the instructor, visibly perspiring. "We… we understand that the manipulation of the Fade comes at a different pace for everyone. Nobody should be punished for a lack of progress."

"_Hm," _said Alistair, pointedly. _"Interesting. _It's so important to practice what one preaches, wouldn't you say?"

Flora now felt sorry enough for the progenitor of her hated _Vase _nickname that she was compelled to intervene.

"Congratulations on being made an instructor, Gethin," she said, squeezing Alistair's fingers surreptitiously. "You were the best in our class, I'm glad you've done so well for yourself."

Gethin gave a nod, eyeing her with some wariness.

"Aye, well – Instructor Melvas was killed during the uprising and they needed a replacement."

Flora felt a sudden twinge of regret for the man who had banished her from his classroom more times than could be counted. As she paused, Gethin opened his mouth once again; hesitant but determined.

"Flor- uh - _Queen Florence. _None… none of us had any idea that you were a spirit healer! If we'd _known _what you were capable of… we never would have – _I _never would have…!"

Alistair did not like the implicit, albeit_ inadvertent_ accusation in the man's tone. He narrowed his eyes, straightening his shoulders to bring himself to his full six foot and three inches, expression steely.

Flora, sensing her husband's prickling indignation, suddenly realised that it did not actually _matter_; that childish teasing and nicknames were utterly inconsequential considering what she had been through over the past year. This revelation caught her off-balance, like an unexpectedly strong wave sweeping to shore between gentler counterparts.

'_The Vase' is the stupidest insult I've ever heard, _she thought to herself, incredulously. _Also, it sounds vaguely Orlesian – they like all those fiddly bits of porcelain. The other apprentices could have at least come up with something more Fereldan._

Slightly embarrassed at her earlier melodramatics, Flora made herself smile up at the anxious, wide-eyed Gethin; metaphorically dropping him from the hook.

"It doesn't matter," she said, trying not to laugh. "It honestly doesn't. I've had monsters trying to bite my head off for the past year, it puts things into… well. It puts things into perspective."

The instructor swallowed in slight disbelief that he had been let off so lightly – despite Alistair still glowering with a vaguely malevolent curl of the lip. Most likely there was no genuine malice behind the glare; but when combined with his height, broad shoulders, gold band of authority and air of Theirin dominance, it came off as genuinely intimidating.

Flora squeezed Alistair's fingers repeatedly, and as usual, the pressure of his best friend's warm palm anchored the king back to reality. He blinked - shook off the mantle of vague anger - and smiled affectionately down at her.

"Yes, my love?"

"We're hungry," she said while patting her stomach, having consumed each of her secret sandwiches surreptitiously during class. "Starving! Is it dinnertime?"

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Aaaah this was a nice chapter! It gives Flora a little bit of closure – I think returning to the familiar environment – but as a former Warden, current Hero of Ferelden and Queen – helped her to realise how moronic the old insults actually were. I don't think she would have come to this revelation without actually going back to her old classroom, where so much of the embarrassment and humiliation took place. And I like to keep adding to Connor Guerrin's character arc when I can!
> 
> All the chambers in the Circle are purely headcanon, but the little chamber with the candles I described is based on a room from a game I remember watching my dad play back in the nineties – but I don't remember what it IS! It's actually so frustrating! If anyone knows what it is, please let me know… aha. Anyway, this little room with the candles was in a temple, and you had to solve these puzzles in the temple to go to different realms that were based on different environments?


	109. A Twinfold Blessing

It was a small and intimate grouping that ate together in Irving's study – the First Enchanter, Wynne, the royal couple, and Teagan. Zevran, who did not enjoy the scrutiny that accompanied formal dinners with strangers, had vanished to seek food elsewhere.

The main course – capons, seared to herbed perfection, with roasted shallots – was served by a handful of Tranquil servants. Despite the fact that their Circle envoy had been a Tranquil named Pether, Alistair and Teagan were still a little wary in the presence of these stoic former mages. Flora, despite having met many Tranquil during her four years at Kinloch Hold, was also somewhat disquieted. She recalled Zevran's comment from the previous night – about how mages in other Circles were illegally Tranquillised to facilitate their abuse – and how terrified she had been when she believed that Howe was going to Tranquilise _her._ To this end, she made an effort to be _especially _polite to the attendants; effusively so. At one point Alistair had to put a hand gently on his wife's knee to stop her from physically serving herself.

Later, the bann reflected that it must have been a contender for the _strangest _location that he had ever passed a meal in. Over Irving's long and illustrious career as a mage, the First Enchanter had collected a variety of weird and wonderful artefacts. This included a wizened, stuffed crocodile hanging from the ceiling; a variety of elaborate, silver alchemical instruments; an hourglass the size of a man filled with what appeared to be tiny black stones. Resting casually on the window-sill was an _ocularum, a_ polished skull with a prismatic crystal embedded into the right eye socket.

As they waited for the dessert course to be brought out, stuffed full of chicken and onions (and boiled vegetable stew for the meat-averse queen), the more daring members of the company chose to explore the contents of Irving's study. Irving had assured them that anything _dangerous _would be kept under Templar guard rather than on open display.

A fascinated Alistair was inspecting a small figurine of a dragon, carved from onyx with tiny eyes of embedded jade. Teagan, who had just managed to remove his hand from an innocuous velvet bag that had melded perfectly to his flesh, was sweating slightly.

Flora was drawn to a tall, hexagonal glass cabinet in one corner of the room; upon the shelves of which a variety of curiosities were arranged.

"Look to the centre shelf," Irving murmured, watching her closely from his seat at the table. "In the walnut case."

Flora's eyes dropped to a flat, dark brown case polished to a high sheen; assuming that this must be _walnut_. She reached out to unfasten the gleaming catches at either side of the case, noticing that it was the only object in the cabinet _not _covered with a fine layer of dust. The lid was heavy – it was inlaid with an intricate geometric design of pale wood and mother of pearl. Carefully, she pushed it up and back, revealing the contents of the case.

The inside was padded with red velvet, with an inscribed ivory plaque and a gilded bracket keeping the contents in place. The item nestled within seemed incongruous compared to its luxurious surroundings; a shrivelled fragment of nondescript wood, the ends splintered and charred. It was no larger than Flora's little finger, for all intents and purposes, a sad and unremarkable splinter.

Yet Flora felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck as she stared down at the broken fragment, a sudden chill creeping down the length of her spine that had nothing to do with the damp Circle climate.

_I know what this is – _was –

_It was my – _

"Alistair?" she breathed, noticing that her hands were shaking and glad that she had not taken the case from the cabinet.

"My love?"

Alistair tore his attention from the onyx dragon, turning towards her.

"Could… could you read this for me? The writing is joined up."

The king abandoned the figurine and strode the six paces that divided them; cupping the back of Flora's neck with an affectionate hand as he bent to see what she was looking at.

As Alistair took in the shrivelled scrap of wood, recognition dawned and the easy smile fell from his face. He shot Flora a quick glance, before clearing his throat and reading aloud the inscription carved on the ivory plaque.

"'_The above being a shard of the staff used by the Grey Warden Florence Cousland to slay the Archdemon Urthemiel, thus ending the Fifth Blight. 9:31, Dragon.'"_

"I thought the pieces of my staff were all burnt," Flora whispered, recalling the pyre at Revanloch monastery.

"Several were saved for posterity," Irving corrected softly, taking a sip from his tea-cup. "We received a fragment, as did the Royal Archive in Denerim. Several foreign parties have also requested a shard – the Museum of Antiquities in Val Royeaux, the Imperial Archon in Tevinter. Their requests are still being processed, I believe."

Flora looked nonplussed, reaching out to touch the charred wood with a gentle fingertip.

"Do you mind, Lo?" Alistair murmured quietly from behind her, his lips brushing the back of her neck. "I can put a stop to it, just say the word."

"No_-o_," she said after a moment, reflectively. "I don't mind. What made it special is… is gone now, anyway. It's just wood."

Flora took a final glance at the charred fragment and then closed the case, fastening the lid with fingers a fraction more steady than before. She took a deep breath - wincing as a strong little foot swung into her kidney – and turned her back on cabinet, case, and contents.

Dessert arrived soon after, a blancmange cleverly moulded in the shape of Denerim Castle. It was so garishly pink and ostentatious that the royal company could not help but stare at it; Flora now thoroughly distracted from the fragment of shrivelled wood.

"Our cook seems to have retained a shred of pride in his artistic creations," Irving commented wryly as he handed a knife to Alistair. "The Templars aren't even sure that he was properly Tranquilised, but his food is so good that nobody wants to ask too many questions."

Alistair let out a soft snort of disbelief, noting the tiny Mabari sculpted above the castle's main entrance.

"It seems a pity to cut it up," he commented, but then didn't hesitate to do so; carving off one of the main towers and letting it drop onto a silver dish. "Here you go, my love. You can eat the library tower!"

"Mm! Perhaps it'll help me with my reading," Flora offered, hopefully.

After dinner, the company reconvened in the bedchamber assigned to the royal couple. The elven mage knowledgeable in childbearing was _en route_; he had spent all afternoon assisting a midwife in a nearby village with a difficult birth.

Alistair – secretly terrified that the health of mother and child had been adversely affected by the constant travel – was pacing indentations into the floorboards, striding first from hearth to window, and then from bed to door. Wynne, sighing inwardly from her seat on the window bench, did not reprimand the king; instead, she made idle and light-hearted conversation, to which he gave distracted grunts in response.

Zevran was leaning against the hearth, humming softly under his breath as dark Antivan eyes tracked the anxious father's pacing.

"You are making me dizzy, Alistair," he complained, blowing dust from a finger swept across the hearth. "If I lose my balance and fall into the flames, it is _you_ whom I shall haunt."

Alistair let out a little snort, barely listening, his own pupils blown wide with nervous tension. Zevran looked down at Flora – who was sitting back against the bed-pillows, her wide eyes on her fretful husband – and then across to where Teagan was standing beside the door. The two men shared a swift, mutual glance of agreement; their minds meeting at the same conjuncture of thought.

_He's making her worried with the rawness of his anxiety. He needs to calm down._

"Alistair," said Teagan firmly, stepping forwards to intercept the king's pacing. "Have a sip of brandy. It's not Antivan, so the elf won't approve – but it's not bad."

Alistair looked about to protest, but the old dynamic between bann and former stable-boy won out. He gave a nod, allowing himself to be led over to the dresser. Teagan, who had the steadier hand in the moment, poured his nephew a double-sized helping of Nevarran almond brandy. As the king raised it to his lips, the younger Guerrin leaned forward to murmur quiet reassurance in his ear.

Flora, sprawled inelegantly on the bed, was more worried for Alistair's wellbeing than for her own. She was reasonably certain that the baby was fine – it wriggled as much as it was able in increasingly tight confines. Recalling the midwife's visit at the palace in Denerim, she had stripped down to shirt and smallclothes; reasoning that everybody in the room had already seen her in various states of undress.

Just then, there came a business-like rap at the door. Moments later, a Templar entered to announce the presence of senior enchanter Mavon. The delivery was slightly awkward, since the Chantry soldier was clearly not used to formally introducing the arrival of a _mage_.

Mavon was an elf of slight build, with short-cropped dark hair and a clever, pinched face. He moved with the darting motions of a sparrow, quick and meticulously precise. After sparing the king a quick bow, his eyes went straight to where the queen was sprawled on the bed. Alistair, anxious breath caught in his throat, was stood rigid in place beside the dresser; suddenly grateful for his uncle's comforting hand on his elbow.

"You're younger than I assumed, _Hero of Ferelden_," the elf commented, a vague hint of an accent filtering through the words. "First baby?"

Flora nodded, propping herself up on her elbows and gazing at the elf curiously.

"I remember you," she breathed, watching Mavon as he crossed the room and perched on the bed. "You taught one of my classes once when our usual instructor was poorly."

"I'm afraid I don't remember you from your Circle days, your majesty," Mavon murmured, lifting up the blanket from the bed and draping it over Flora's nether regions. "Although of course, I'm well-versed in your more _recent_ exploits. Knees apart, please."

The elf withdrew a small glass vial from the drawstring bag, which emitted a strong, alcoholic scent when uncorked. Tipping several drops of liquid onto his palms, he rubbed them together briskly until his hands were coated in purifying salve. Flora obediently bent her knees apart, lying back and staring at the ceiling.

"I didn't really excel in class," she admitted - in possibly the understatement of the Age - as the elf disappeared beneath the blanket. "I'm not surprised you didn't remember me."

"Apparently so, my lady. May I remove your smallclothes? I'm afraid my hands are a little cold."

Flora gave a grunt of acquiescence; moments later, her eyes bulged in shock.

"_Aah!_ A '_little' _cold?! They're colder than…ice-packed fish!"

She pulled a series of grimaces, contorting her face up at the ceiling as the elf worked in business-like manner beneath the blanket. At his wife's squawk of discomfort, Alistair regained his movement; moving across to sit on the bed beside her. He stretched out his hand and Flora took it, grateful that he had stopped the dizzying pacing.

"It's the salve," Wynne explained from her position beside the window, since Mavon was clearly too preoccupied with his assessment to give any explanation. "The alcohol kills any foul miasmas clinging to the fingers."

"The Herring midwife uses saltwater," Flora offered, as Mavon withdrew from beneath the blanket and reached for the salve once again. "She says that salt stops fish from going bad, so it stands to reason that it stops _other _things from going bad, too."

"Everything looks well enough," the elf interjected briskly, letting the blanket rest on Flora's thighs and reaching for her shirt. "How have you been feeling?"

Alistair let out a little sigh of relief, his thumb rubbing compulsive circles into his best friend's palm.

"Fine," replied Flora vaguely, craning her neck to watch the elf unbuttoning the bottom of her shirt. "What's in the salve?"

"She's sick in the mornings, sometimes," the king spoke up, hastily. "And she's fainted before. She gets indigestion and heartburn most days. She finds it hard to sleep."

The elf stifled a smile; the king was not the first anxious new father he had met.

"All those are wholly normal," he murmured, opening the shirt to reveal Flora's high, rounded belly. "I'm afraid that sleep will become increasingly elusive over the next- "

Mavon broke off suddenly in a way that made both Alistair and Flora look up, startled. The elf was gazing at the size of Flora's stomach, one dark eyebrow raised and his pupils constricted to pinpricks of focus. When he had first entered, the size of her belly had been disguised by the loose shirt and the blankets; now, it stood out swollen and proud.

"How many weeks has it been since conception?" he enquired, softly. "Do you know?"

King and queen peered at each other, attempting to work out exactly how long ago Ostagar had been.

"Thirty four weeks," replied Wynne, who had kept a detailed calendar in her journal since she had first guessed Flora's condition at South Reach.

Mavon leaned forward and began to feel around the firm mound of flesh, pressing in with his thumbs. The second eyebrow rose in parallel to the other, while both Alistair and Flora blinked at each other in confusion.

"Is – is something _wrong?" _Alistair croaked, naked fear running through each word.

The elf shook his head in a quick back-forth, reaching into the drawstring pouch and bringing out three polished, egg-shaped crystals. Each was clouded and dull; the stones unremarkable.

From her seat by the window Wynne sat up straight, the book abandoned in her lap. The senior enchanter glanced quickly towards the bann; both aware that her suspicions would soon be confirmed or refuted. The perceptive Zevran noticed the tension prickling between the two, narrowing his eyes curiously.

"These are vitality stones," Mavon explained to the royal couple, showing the nondescript stones off in a palm. "They detect and reflect the life-essence of a creature. Tevinter in origin, but – don't worry – _entirely _safe, and a very useful tool. Now, your majesty, since I only have two hands, I need you to hold the third gem in place for me."

Flora obediently took one of the stones, mirroring the elf's movement as he pressed the dull crystals gently to the bare surface of her stomach. She did not enquire as to the number, assuming that it was a standard amount required for the procedure.

"Why are there three?" Alistair asked, his brow furrowing.

"One for the mother," Mavon replied quietly, his eyes alight with focus as the stone in Flora's hand suddenly flickered to life. She blinked as it grew warm to the touch, emitting a soft, buttery yellow hue.

"One for the baby," the elf continued, watching the stone in his left hand flare with a more incandescent brilliance. Seconds later, the third stone also lit up with gilt-edged illumination; emitting small rays of light between the healer's fingers. "And… one for the baby's _sibling."_

Wynne and Teagan exhaled in unison; the senior enchanter's theory at last proven correct. Zevran almost fell into the hearth out of sheer shock, sporting an expression of deeply uncharacteristic surprise.

Alistair looked stunned, while Flora appeared merely confused.

"The baby's _sibling?" _she asked, rather stupidly. "Whaa-?"

"Congratulations, your majesties," Mavon murmured, trying to bite back an unprofessional smile. "There's a pair of strong and healthy babes growing in that womb."

Flora still did not quite understand what the elf meant, her brow furrowed deeply. Then, there came a slightly odd sound from beside her; she twisted her head and realised that tears were pouring down Alistair's cheeks. Alarmed, she swivelled as much as she was able with her restricted movement and put her arms tightly about his neck. He pressed his face against her shoulder, letting out a strangled sob.

"Alistair," she breathed, patting between his broad shoulders. "What – what's wrong? I don't understand!"

"Senior Enchanter Mavon couldn't have spelt it out any more clearly, child," Wynne interjected from across the room, the sternness in her tone undermined by the sudden gleam in her own eyes. "You're having_ twins. _A double gift from the Maker!"

"_Twins?" _Flora repeated, the word emerging strangely from her throat. "Twins? Two? TWO? _Two babies?!"_

Her mind thrashed wildly back and forth like a fish caught on a line. In the corner of her eye, she could see the three glowing crystals lying to one side on the blanket; the gems no longer dull but throbbing with vibrant vitality.

_I thought there was one little creature in there. I thought I was talking to a single pair of ears for all these months; when I was actually talking to two. Two babies in there, the whole time._

_Actually, now it makes perfect sense why I wanted oily fish one moment and pickled onions the next. A boy and a girl._

_Herring instinct is never wrong, I should have listened! _

She inhaled unsteadily, grey irises as wide as saucers. Alistair, wet-cheeked and bright-eyed, pressed one damp kiss after another to her cheeks; his trembling palm cupping her head reverently.

"My beautiful wife," he croaked, with a hoarseness to his voice that Flora had never heard before. "What have I done to… to deserve such a blessing?"

Flora swallowed a sudden lump in her throat, dropping her hand to her stomach and patting the curve of one baby's rump.

"I should have saved the names Cod and Lobster," she said, thinking on the Mabari pups currently under Fergus' tutelage. "Now we'll have to think of another matching pair."

Alistair let out a choked half-sob, half-laugh; nuzzling his face against her neck in reluctance to let her go.

"My family," he breathed reverently, palm dropping to cover her own as it rested on her stomach. "My own _family_. Maker's Breath, I knew I was the luckiest man in Ferelden when I married you, my love. Now I feel like the most blessed man in all of Thedas."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Awwww, this was cute! Anyway, the secret is out – Wynne's suspicions are never wrong – and really, it should have been pretty obvious, lol. There was a girl at my work who was about five foot two (Flora's height) and she was having twins, and she was SPHERICAL lol. She literally was almost as wide as she was tall!
> 
> Anyway, it was sweet to write Alistair's reaction to becoming a father twice over – Flora's gained family throughout the story with the reunion with her brothers, but he hasn't. Lol I'm not sure how many twenty one year old men would be like YESSSS, BECOMING A FATHER TWICE OVER! but something tells me he would be over the moon, lol.
> 
> Also it's very lucky that the names Cod and Lobster have been reserved for the Mabari pups XD I genuinely wouldn't put it past Flo, hahaha. Twinfold is a really archaic way of saying 'twofold', but I thought it was fitting for the title!


	110. The Perils Of Childbed

After taking several moments to absorb the news, Alistair inhaled sharply; straightening and sitting upright as though readying himself for this additional measure of responsibility. The king turned to the elven enchanter Mavon, who had busied himself with his supplies in the shocked silence.

"So…. _twins. _What does this mean for the birth?" he asked, clearing his throat. "Is there anything we can do to prepare? Or that we need to take caution with?"

"Twins generally come earlier than full term," Mavon replied in business-like manner, sliding the vitality crystals back into the pouch. "I'd wager that they'll be here within the next month."

"Four - _four weeks!" _Alistair breathed, blanching a shade paler and turning to his uncle. _"Maker's Breath!_ Uncle, we'll still be on the progress, won't we?"

The king was clearly picturing a worst case scenario of Flora labouring on the side of the road; passers-by and travelling merchants gawking down at her.

"Not if we only spend one night apiece at Herring, Highever and Amaranthine," Teagan replied, having already worked out a quicker route. "And spend the rest of the time journeying."

Alistair nodded, his jaw set tight and determined.

"Aye," murmured the elf, pulling the drawstrings of the pouch tight. "You want a clean and calm environment, with a skilled midwife on hand. Twins can be more difficult to deliver, and the queen is slender-hipped."

The underlying blanch to Alistair's cheeks took on the more sallow cast of fear. His grip tightened on his wife as he nodded, once again confronted with the spectre that haunted the darkest parts of his dreams.

_My mother died giving birth to me, _he thought in a moment of sheer, white terror. _Zevran's mother died after birthing him. Lady Isolde came close when she was in labour with Connor. _

"Flo will have the best midwife in Ferelden," he breathed, unsteadily. "A whole _team_ of them. And healers – the _best _menders that the Circle has got. I think there's a Val Royeaux physician staying in the capital too. I'll write to Eamon this very hour, have them summoned."

Flora was unsure how Mab, the grim-faced northern midwife, would react to all these additional attendants. She suspected _not well, _but also reasoned that it might be entertaining to watch a fight between a Storm Coast native and an Orlesian doctor during labour.

"Perhaps we ought to leave the Circle early," Alistair suggested, suddenly. "We could be on our way _tomorrow_ if need be."

"Alistair, give your wife a few nights more of sleeping on a featherbed," Wynne interjected sternly, corroborated by a swift nod from Mavon. "And under a solid roof."

"Aye, your majesty," added the elf. "I'd advise that you let her rest well before resuming your travels. The queen needs to build up her constitution as much as possible before the birth."

The king's head swung rapidly from Wynne to the elven healer, pupils constricting once again in alarm.

"Do you mean Flo's constitution _isn't_ strong at the moment?" Alistair asked, faintly.

Mavon tucked the pouch away with deft, precise movements, his reply equally measured.

"The babes are thriving, but the queen is paler than I would like," he said at last, steadily. "And she's not put on much fat in the face or the limbs. I'd recommend another eighth-weight be gained before labour."

Alistair gave a feverish nod, his eyes darting around the room as though hoping that a loaf of bread and a block of cheese might appear miraculously on a dresser.

"What else can we do? To make her stronger."

The senior enchanter went on to recommend plenty of sleep, plenty of meat – or, at Flora's grimace, fresh fish – and a variety of herbal tonics, all of which the Circle could provision. He took his leave after assuring the king that the tonics would be sent up within the hour.

A heavy silence was left in the elf's wake. A scowling Flora broke it eventually with a defiant grumble that Herring girls were hardy, and that northerners were _naturally _fish-belly white.

Nobody offered a reply. Instead, they were looking at her as though seeing her for the first time without the lauded mantle of the _Hero of Ferelden, _or the status of _queen; _both distinctions which granted her a peculiar aura of invincibility.

Now, they could see the delicate physicality that lay beneath the renown; a girl a little over five feet in height, slender in frame with small hands and feet, pale enough that the bluish-green channels of her veins were visible beneath her wrists. No longer did she have a pair of spirits fortifying her constitution from within; for the first time, Flora's health and wellbeing was entirely reliant on herself.

"Stop looking at me like I'm made of glass," she said, in a sudden, hormone-fuelled fit of irritability. "I'm as tough as salt-leather!"

"Of course you are, poppet," Teagan said at last, seeing that Alistair was still visibly stricken. "We just need to start feeding you lots of sweetmeats and pastries. It's an enviable position to be in; my own waistband has been getting a little uncomfortable since I started letting my horse do all the work. I won't fit into Eamon's trousers by the time we return to Denerim."

Flora smiled up at him, grateful for his attempt to lighten the atmosphere.

"You don't need to lose any weight, Bann Teagan," she said, kindly. "You're a handsome man."

Unfortunately, this compliment had the adverse effect – now Teagan too had been struck into silence, a flush creeping up from his collar.

Finally, a fed-up Flora had had enough of the gloom.

"If none of you have anything to say! Then I am going," she announced defiantly, shrugging on her dressing robe and fastening the buttons. "To the PRIVY!"

It was almost impossible to make a dramatic exit clad in lurid mustard wool, but the queen did her best, thinking wistfully on when she had stormed out of the Landsmeet chamber clad in full Warden garb, crimson ponytail swinging in her wake.

The Templars had not returned to guard the entrance; expecting that the company would be some time yet. Thus Flora had the rare treat of privacy, making her way along the stone corridor followed only by the eyes of the basalt statues.

She arrived at the privy, only to realise that – for the first time ever – she did not need to use it. Sitting on a nearby stone bench the queen gave her midriff a gentle poke, hoping to prompt one of the babies to shift itself against her bladder. There was stillness and then a little, sleepy squirm, followed shortly by another wriggle from somewhere deeper. For the first time Flora was able to interpret this odd dual movement; one twin waking up, shortly followed by the other. She felt a surge of irrational guilt for rousing them, patting her stomach.

_Sorry, _she thought and then remembered that they could both hear her.

"Sorry," Flora repeated out loud, her voice echoing to the high vaulted ceiling.

There followed a short period of wriggling within her belly, as the twins repositioned themselves as best as they were able.

"You haven't got much room anymore, have you?" she continued, sympathetically. "Bit cramped in there. Don't worry, a few more weeks and you'll have all the space you need."

Flora leaned back against the stone wall, trying unsuccessfully to find a comfortable position. This soon proved to be an impossible dream and so she settled for mild discomfort instead, closing her eyes with a yawn.

"Florence?"

She opened her eyes again and looked about for the source of the voice; southern, aristocratic and with a slight Marcher inflection. Teagan took a seat beside her, grimacing at the hardness of the bench.

"Maker's Breath," he said, eyebrows rising. "Could a _less comfortable _bench be crafted? I think not."

"There aren't many comfy seats in a Circle," replied Flora, fiddling with a loose thread on her sleeve. "Is Alistair alright? He looked like he was going to be sick."

"He's worried," the bann replied, quiet and rueful. "As he has every right to be, petal. Birthing twins _is _more dangerous."

Flora grimaced, rubbing an idle palm over her mustard stomach. A senior Templar strode past, trailing a gaggle of mail-clad juniors. Each one snuck a glance sideways at the young queen, who hastily tugged the wool dressing robe lower over her bare knees.

Just then, one of the babies shifted position; pressing some part of its small body against Flora's bladder. Her eyes lit up, and she pushed herself inelegantly to her feet.

"_Finally!"_

Once she had emerged from the privy, Teagan rose to his feet with a stifled yawn and offered the beleaguered queen his arm.

"Ready to go back?"

Flora shook her head, lowering herself once more to the stone bench. She did not speak for a moment, a faint line furrowing across her forehead as she gazed intently at the tapestry opposite. Teagan returned to his seat, stretching out booted feet into the corridor.

"Bann Teagan, I have something to ask you," the queen said after a moment, her voice wobbling slightly. "A favour."

"Anything within my power, poppet," Teagan replied, immediately. "What is it?"

Flora opened her mouth, closed it again, and then shot him a quick sideways glance. She took a gulp of air, trying to inject some steadiness into her reply.

"I helped the midwife at Herring with a lot of births when I was younger. There's always a question that the mother gets asked at the start of the labour."

Teagan was silent for a moment, a shadow passing swiftly across his face. He knew well enough what this question was; had heard his brother voice an answer to it ten years prior at Connor's birth.

"'_If the birth goes ill, who should be saved?'" _the bann said eventually, a hollowness to the words. _"If it comes down to choosing between mother or babe.' _Flora- "

Flora spoke hastily before he could continue, deliberately earnest in an attempt to hide her trembling hands.

"In Herring, the mother is saved," she said, still forcing steadiness into her voice. "A grown person is more valuable to the village than a baby. But – but I think in noble families, the baby is valued over the mother?"

Her words rose in a question. Teagan gave a nod in response, recalling Eamon's own grim answer to a question asked a decade prior.

"Aye, poppet, but Alistair would _never_ countenance that," the bann replied, immediately. "You know he would never choose a course of action that would lead to you coming to harm."

"I know," Flora said, her voice small and determined. "That's… that's why I'm taking the choice out of his hands. If it goes ill, if the birth goes – if it goes _wrong, _I want the babies to be saved over me. Even if they need to – to _cut_… anyway. I want them to be saved."

Flora swallowed, hearing Teagan exhale unsteadily beside her.

"Petal, Alistair would _never_ allow that!"

She nodded and turned to him; reaching out to put her hand on his arm.

"Bann Teagan- "

The bann realised then what the favour she wanted from him was, and let out a muffled curse under his breath.

"Maker's Breath, sweetheart – you can't ask me to do that!"

He thrust himself to his feet, paced the width of the corridor and put his head to his fist, heart racing erratically in his chest.

"Please, Bann Teagan," Flora entreated, gazing up at him from the stone bench. "If it comes to that… I might not be in a condition where I can think or speak properly. I need someone to make sure that the twins are saved. To make sure my… my choice is carried out."

The bann let out a groan against his fist, past caring that passing Templars were shooting curious glances towards them. He shook his head in helpless denial for a moment, and then turned back towards her.

"Florence – _Flora_. How could I make that decision? You're asking me to – to sanction your _death." _

"No," she countered, blinking back a sudden surge of emotion. "I'm asking you to save the heirs to the throne… if it comes to that. You _know_ how important these babies are to Ferelden's future."

Teagan returned to sit heavily beside her, shoulders slumped and eyes overcast.

"Why me?" he asked, bleakly. "I can't – I couldn't possibly…"

"Arl Leonas is too loyal to the old teyrn – to my father – to agree," Flora whispered. "I think Wynne would see my point of view, but she's a mage and they might not listen to her. Zevran would never agree because he cares for me- "

"And I _don't?" _the bann interrupted, a harsh rasp to the words as they slipped from his throat.

Flora gazed at him for several long moments, then reached out and took his hand between both of hers.

"Please, Bann Teagan," she pleaded, clutching his fingers tightly within her own.

"Flora, I - "

"_Please!"_

She turned wide, limpid eyes on him, her full lips parted hopefully. The bann gazed down at his entangled fingers and let out a groan of defeat, reaching out in resignation to touch Flora's cheek with his free hand.

"Fine," he said at last, heavily. "I'll do it, poppet. I'll see your wish carried out."

"Thank you," she replied, giving his fingers a hard and appreciative squeeze. "I… I know it's a terrible thing to ask."

"It's a terrible thing for a girl of only two decades to consider," Teagan countered, wiping a bead of nervous perspiration from his forehead. "The Maker wouldn't be cruel enough to take the life of the _Hero of Ferelden,_ I hope."

Flora swallowed, and gave a little shrug.

"I don't know. I hope not. This is just a… a _worst case scenario. _Herring girls don't die in childbed."

_Because I was there to mend them, _she thought to herself, grimly.

With the powerful strength of denial that had seen her refuse to acknowledge the swelling of her body for months, Flora thrust the thought from her mind. She made herself smile at the bann, giving his fingers another squeeze.

"Let's go back to the chamber. I want to see Alistair."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: The dangerous reality of Medieval childbirth (actually, childbirth for the majority of history! And still a reality in much of the world today). Here's a random childbirth historical fact for you – Jane Seymour, Henry VIII's third wife (the mother of his only surviving son) died of sepsis shortly after childbirth. It's been hypothesised that the infection was caused by the placenta remaining inside her womb – a midwife would have known to remove it, but the queen would have been treated by the most 'educated' male physicians in England. University educated in the works of Hippocrates and Galen, so TOTAL EXPERTS (not!) - they wouldn't have known to check for remnants of the placenta (or dared to). Such a tragedy! I'm not letting that Val Royeaux physician anywhere near Flo, lol. It'll be Mab the midwife all the way
> 
> Also, when I gave birth to my daughter it was traumatic as FUCK DICK. I had to have an emergency C section, bled enough to need a transfusion and then I got sepsis D:


	111. I Won’t Lose You Again

Zevran and Wynne had left the guest chamber during Flora's excursion to the privy; the senior enchanter to oversee the mixing of the fortifying tonics, and the elf to distract himself with the pursuit of mindless pleasure. As bann and queen entered the room Alistair rose to his feet from the armchair beside the hearth; hard and glittering purpose alight in his eyes. He strode towards them, taking his wife in his arms and pressing his lips to the top of her head.

"We're going to get into the habit of eating supper after dinner, my love," he informed her bluntly, gesturing to a nearby table laden down with hastily prepared _crudités, _hunks of hewn bread and an entire wheel of cheese. "As well as having elevenses, brunch, afternoon tea… And after supper, we're going to get an early night."

"Ooh," said Flora, resigning herself to the prospect of never-ending indigestion. "That cheese looks nice. Is it cheddar?"

Alistair nodded, his arm still fixed firmly around her shoulders.

"Uncle, do you want to join us for some food? You're very pale."

Teagan shook his head, swallowing a hard knot in his throat and straightening his shoulders.

"You two spend some time together," he replied softly, his green Guerrin eyes troubled. "I'll see you in the morning; we've some correspondence to go through after your drill."

As the door shut in the bann's wake, Alistair steered Flora across to the small wooden table and nudged her down to the chair. The next minute, he was piling a plate high with an ambitious stack of vegetable crudités; carving off vast chunks of cheese to fortify the structure

Flora eyed the rapidly expanding tower of food, mildly intimidated.

"I think you may be overestimating the size of my stomach," she said in awe, watching Alistair add a decorative frieze of cherry tomatoes to the base of the tower. "It's almost as tall as this place!"

"You must try to eat it _all," _her husband instructed, sternly. "I won't even _think_ about the possibility of losing you, sweetheart. It's not going to happen."

There was a steely vein of determination in his voice, the words emerging defiant and non-negotiable. Flora found herself oddly comforted by her best friend's confidence; for a single moment, she truly believed that the king of Ferelden also held dominion over the realm of life and death.

"I'd better get started on this, then," she replied cheerfully, reaching for a cherry tomato. "Mm, I love food."

After Flora had made a wilful effort to eat as much of the food as possible – she could not tolerate the notion of any of it going to waste – Alistair produced a plethora of small bottles. He fed her a spoonful from each of the fortifying tonics brought up by Wynne; most were bland and inoffensive, but a few were downright bitter. Flora swallowed each tonic, feeling her stomach churn after a particularly sour, blackcurrant-coloured liquid.

"Eurgh! Pass me the fish oil again, I need to wash that down with something _tasty."_

Alistair dutifully passed her the cod liver tonic, just about restraining himself from plugging his nostrils at the stench.

Once all the restorative, constitution- enhancing tonics had been taken, Flora found herself being ushered into bed. Since the bell had just rung to mark the change in watch, she knew that it was only an hour past dusk.

"Are we going to bed?" she asked, curiously. "It's still _light _outside."

"No, it's not," lied Alistair, drawing the curtains hastily shut over the window. "And I want you to get twelve hours of rest tonight, my love."

"_Twelve hours?! _Twelve? One-two?"

"We only had about five last night! I'm just trying to compensate for the missing hours."

He gazed at her, and for a single moment the mask of stoicism slipped; revealing a raw, ragged-edged worry carved into the bone below. Flora noticed this brief flicker of fear, and flashed him what she hoped was a comforting smile.

"Well, I can't think of anything I'd like more than to spend twelve hours in bed with you," she said, sincerely. "My most favourite person in the whole of Thedas."

True enough to his word, Alistair gamely changed into his sleep-trousers and settled down in bed alongside her. By the light of the hearth and several carefully-placed candles, Flora laboriously worked through an entry from _Even More Exotic Fish of Thedas, _while Alistair added several more lines to a letter intended for Eamon.

Once Alistair had grown bored of his own correspondence, he put the letter to one side and slung an arm around his wife's shoulders. With his finger moving beneath the words and gentle prompting, Flora finished reading the entry aloud; closing the leather-bound pages with an involuntary beam of pride.

"When we return to Denerim, I'm going to try and fish up an _Amaranthine Speckled Squid," _she declared, eyes alight. "Seven foot long tentacles! I want to see one with my own eyes."

Alistair leaned across to put the book on the bedside table, taking advantage of proximity to blow out the candle resting there. With the chamber half-buried in shadow, he leaned back against the pillows and drew Flora into his side. She rested her cheek against his chest, feeling a little squirm within her stomach as one of the babies woke up. The king instinctively glanced downwards as he too sensed the movement; one hand reaching out to stroke the outline of his child.

"So, twins then, eh?" he said softly into the darkness, continuing to caress her stomach. "Did you have any idea?"

Flora shook her head against his shoulder, and despite her earlier protests at settling down so early, stifled a yawn.

"It makes sense now," she replied, sleepily. "I thought the baby was just being acrobatic when it kicked me in two places at once."

Despite his fears in the face of the impending birth and the anxiety over Flora's health, Alistair allowed himself a few minutes of raw joy at the prospect of his family expanding more than he had ever anticipated. He embraced her within the nest of blankets, drawing his new queen tightly against his chest and kissing the top of her head.

"My darling," the king murmured tenderly, somewhere just north of her ear. "The Maker blessed me just by bringing you into my life. Having you as my partner – as _my wife – _was all the family I could desire. But this, _this…"_

He trailed off for a moment, caressing the high swell of her stomach with a calloused palm.

"_This _is something I – I _never _thought I would have. To be a father – _Maker's Breath. _It's… it's just beyond – beyond anything I could have ever…"

Flora could hear her best friend's coherency slipping away, a tell-tale tremor in the words. Sure enough - when she craned her neck as best as she was able - she could see a peculiar gleam illuminating the flecks of green in Alistair's eyes; fresh dampness on his cheeks. She swivelled gracelessly amidst the blankets and put her arms around his neck, pressing her lips to the remnants of tears.

The king remained quiet – save for trembling inhalation – as his queen kissed his damp cheeks; leaning forward as best as she was able. One of Alistair's hands rose unsteadily to cup the back of Flora's head, cradling the fragile curve of her skull against his palm.

"I feel as clumsy as a seven foot Amaranthine speckled squid," she commented ruefully, stroking her thumb back and forth over his stubbled jaw. _"Clumsier." _

Despite her initial trepidation at retiring to bed so early, Flora soon found herself drifting off to sleep against Alistair's chest; finding more comfort nestled into her husband's body than with any number of cushions and pillows. She lay submerged in a rich and dreamless sleep for several hours, waking disorientated in the middle of the night to find the bed beside her empty.

The room was now almost completely dark, save for the remnants of the fire smouldering away in the hearth. If they had been in the palace at Denerim, servants would have crept in to surreptitiously coax the flame back to life, but the Circle was less familiar with hosting royal guests. It was chilly, but not as bitingly cold as the previous night; from somewhere outside the barred window, an owl sang out a low, mournful hoot.

Assuming that Alistair had gone to the privy or to fetch a drink, Flora peered around the shadowed chamber. It took her a moment to spot him, since she was looking for a head standing at several inches over six feet – and not a figure crouched on the flagstones.

Alistair was kneeling before the small altar set up in the corner of the room, his head bowed and his hands clasped in quiet entreaty. Flora could just about glimpse his mouth working in the darkness; offering prayer after muttered prayer to the Maker, to the Maker's Bride – a mother Herself – and to the spirits in general.

Although she could not hear the exact shape of his plea, Flora could guess well-enough what it was about. Not wanting to disturb a man at prayer she did not say anything, but waited quietly for him to be finished.

Some time later, the king rose to his feet and let out a long exhalation, shooting a final imploring glance at the gilded icon of Andraste. He returned to the bed - taking care to tread lightly across the flagstones - before sitting down on the edge of the mattress.

Moments later, a pair of arms wound their way greedily around Alistair's bare, muscle-bound torso; his wife embracing him from behind as she rested her chin on a jutting ridge of shoulder.

"I am a speckled squid," Flora whispered in his ear, pressing herself wantonly against his back with her dressing gown half-unbuttoned. "With many groping arms. I'm going to eat you up!"

She slid her palms over the chiselled contours of Alistair's abdomen, feeling the iron beneath the battle-marked olive skin. Meanwhile, her lips had occupied themselves with the length of his neck, planting soft little pecks into the sinewy hollow of his throat.

"A speckled squid?" Alistair replied throatily, canting his head to one side as his wife bit gently at his collarbone.

"Mmmm. Mm, speckled," mumbled Flora, distracted by the finely-hewn, bulky physicality before her. "And carnivorous, yum."

He grinned, sliding an affectionate palm up and down the length of her forearm as it draped possessively across his chest.

"I think I need to check the whereabouts of these alleged _speckles," _Alistair murmured, twisting at the waist and easing his wife gently back onto the cushions. "To make sure you aren't… an _imposter_."

"An octopus masquerading as a squid," Flora replied solemnly, the corners of her full mouth pulled tight as she tried not to laugh. The mustard wool dressing gown was half unbuttoned at the front, exposing one swollen breast. The mark left by the Archdemon's soul stretched ragged across her shoulder, pale and silvered by the muted light of the hearth.

"Well, you never know, these days," Alistair murmured, leaning forward as his fingers worked the remaining buttons of the dressing robe loose. "I think I need to visually verify the existence of these speckles."

He resisted the temptation of her breast – aware that they were particularly tender today - and instead nuzzled his face against Flora's collarbone; reverently kissing the hollow of her throat as though it were some Andrastrian relic equal to any resting on the altar.

Brother- and sister-warden had once freely used the bedroll to distract themselves from the horrors of the Blight. Now, husband and wife resorted to similar tactics – albeit in nicer surroundings – to temporarily banish the grim spectre of childbirth; with all its inherent dangers.

Afterwards, the king held his yawning and satiated queen tight to his chest, aware that they should probably don some nightclothes in preparation for the inevitable early morning incursion. Yet he was reluctant to let Flora go for even a second, clutching her warm body to his and reassuring himself of its sturdiness.

"'Night, my lovely anemone," she mumbled sleepily into Alistair's shoulder, curling her fingers into his palm.

"Goodnight, my- " Alistair paused for a moment, his mind frantically searching for a marine creature that was both immensely strong and unyieldingly sturdy. "My beautiful… whale."

"WHALE?" demanded Flora, incensed. _"WHALE?!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Not the best ever choice of endearments, Alistair! And FISH-THEMED ROLEPLAY = a new low for the bedroom, ahahaha


	112. Distractions

Flora's melodramatic outrage at being referred to as a _whale _lasted for the rest of the night, through the breaking of their fast and well into the next morning. Alistair did not help himself by breaking into periodic bursts of laughter as he caught glimpses of her indignant, finely hewn face glowering at him from the bathtub and over the breakfast rolls.

"Darling," he tried to placate her, struggling to keep a grin from spreading across his handsome features. "I only meant that you had the _warrior spirit _of a mighty whale – not that you _looked _like one! You _know_ that you're the most beautiful girl in all of Thedas."

In actuality, Flora was no longer affronted by Alistair's comment – she knew that he had meant it as a compliment, rather than a slight on the size of her belly – but feigning melodramatic outrage was oddly satisfying in her hormonal state. With every indignant pout and toss of her hair, she created distance between themselves and the elven mage's ominous warning from the previous night.

_Your constitution needs bolstering before the birth. It's not as strong as I'd like. _

Alistair, who usually spent an hour or two every day practising with sword and shield, had elected to join the Templars during their morning sparring practice. Although they had only been staying in the Circle for a handful of days, he had seen too many mages with the padded bodies of the eternally sedentary, and had grown unnecessarily nervous about his own muscular physique. Despite no longer being a Warden – or indeed, actively at war – the king of Ferelden was determined to keep himself in prime fighting condition in case the need arose once more to defend his country – or his family.

To this end, after breaking an extensive and heartyfast with his pouting wife, Alistair went to join the Templars in their morning drill. This was customarily held on a wide balcony located on the eastern face of the Tower; a jutting promontory of stone precisely placed to catch the bulk of the morning sun. The balcony was spacious enough to house two dozen spaced-apart target dummies, along with weapon racks, benches and the other items required for training.

The air sang with the clash of metal against metal and the thud of metal against wood; less experienced Templars striking training dummies while their veteran counterparts sparred with their peers. A drill instructor at the far end of the balcony barked out instructions for a dozen adolescent recruits, who wielded training swords crafted from wood.

Flora was perched with Wynne on a bench to the side, positioned where the most sunlight spilled over the stone. They were ostensibly practising Flora's literacy - which had been neglected since the beginning of their progress - but, as the senior enchanter had quickly discovered, the queen was getting a little _too_ distracted by her husband's nearby exertions.

"Flora, I don't see why we couldn't use one of the half-dozen libraries or study carrels located within the Circle," Wynne said, a note of exasperation ringing through the words as she let _A Child's Illustrated History of Ferelden _rest in her lap. "Your focus keeps drifting like… like an anchorless vessel!"

As the senior enchanter had hoped, the marine reference successfully caught Flora's attention. The queen dutifully swivelled her head back around and forced herself to focus on the hand-inked letters.

"I'd be able to concentrate better if it were my fish book," she mumbled, shifting to accommodate a small knee jabbing into the base of her spine. "Shall I go and get it?"

"_No, _Florence. You need to learn more about the heritage of the nation that Alistair now leads," countered Wynne sternly, lifting the book and pointing her finger to the page. "Let's continue."

Laboriously, Flora worked her way through the story of Calenhad's relinquishing of the throne; a tale with many complex words and dubious examples of morality. To her mild confusion, her husband's many-times ancestor seemed to have fallen from power after being bewitched into inadvertently sharing a bed with his wife's lady companion.

"So he just – he just _abducted _the throne and disappeared?"

"Abdicated," corrected Wynne, lowering the book to her lap. "And yes, he vanished."

"Vanished? He was a _mage _all along?!"

"_No, _child – he didn't _literally turn invisible. _He secreted himself into the countryside, leaving his throne to the son in his wife's belly."

Flora still looked confused, and so Wynne decided to hastily press on, tapping her finger on the next page.

"Shall we continue with the early reign of Waylon Theirin I?"

But the queen's attention had drifted once again. Wynne followed her gaze to where Alistair was sparring with a nervous Templar; the king clad in a thin shirt and a fine sheen of perspiration.

"_Florence Cousland, _focus!"

"I _am _focused," Flora breathed, her eyes studying the movement of ironbound muscle with each fluid swing of the sword. "Ooh, he's _so_ handsome."

"I knew we should have gone to the archives to study," grumbled Wynne, though without rancour. "I doubt you'd get as distracted by Old Peter, the librarian with the knee-length beard and the facial warts."

Flora had stopped listening, her lips parting as she devoured her husband's powerful, yet meticulously controlled movements. The king was aware of his own strength – he was almost two metres of bulk and muscle – and did not want to injure his opponent. This had been a lesson hard learned from his days in the Templar monastery; where his younger self had often been disciplined for accidentally destroying training dummies.

Sensing the admiring gaze of his wife, Alistair lowered his sword and turned towards the stone benches, brushing a strand of sweaty hair from his eyes. His green-flecked stare met Flora's; two dozen yards away across the balcony, she flashed him a slow, rare public smile, laying out her bait.

As though he were being wound slowly in on a fishing line, Alistair crossed the flagstones; sparring recruits hastily drawing apart to clear a path for their king. Flora continued to smile at him, her face warmed by a fresh rush of blood to her cheeks.

Alistair sheathed his sword before reaching her, straddling the stone bench as Flora swivelled as best she could towards him. He took her face gently between his damp palms, the perspiration gleaming within the unbuttoned neck of his shirt. She gazed at him, mesmerised, her full lips wet and slightly parted.

"Oh, for Maker's sake," grumbled Wynne, sliding ostensibly down the bench as far as was possible. "You were both happily engaged in separate pursuits a moment ago. Flora, your literacy is never going to improve if you keep losing your focus!"

Unfortunately, Flora was already entirely distracted, her arms wrapped around Alistair's neck as he kissed her with a raw and enthusiastic ardour. One of his palms spread proudly across the small of her back, the other was wound within her hair; anchoring her to him.

"My own wife," he whispered when they parted, flushed in the face and breathless. "My very own sweet wife."

Flora smiled back at him, surreptitiously inhaling the heated, masculine scent of his damp skin.

"_Ahem." _

The cough came from Irving's private secretary; a slender, ungainly man with a scholar's ink-stained fingers. "I have a message from Bann Guerrin, King Alistair. Shall I relate it?"

Alistair grunted his assent, fingering a thick strand of Flora's oxblood hair.

"Go ahead."

The secretary cleared his throat, steepling his fingers.

"'_There's a stack of letters the height of a dwarf awaiting your attention. Come to the council chamber – once you've bathed.'"_

Alistair snorted, gently tugging at the strand of hair before releasing it and rising to his feet.

"That's my uncle's polite way of saying _get up here, now. _Ready to go, Flo?"

"Mm!"

While Alistair took his bath within the guest bedchamber, Flora decided to seek out their elven companion. Nobody had seen Zevran since the previous evening, when the senior enchanter had delivered both the news of twins, and the more unwelcome revelation that Flora's constitution required strengthening before she could give birth safely.

After leaning on the rim of the bathtub and kissing Alistair on his damp, soapy cheek, Flora took her leave from their chamber. She could feel his eyes boring anxiously between her shoulder-blades as she left – the king recalled her gentle slide into unconsciousness the previous day – and heard the quiet, ubiquitous tread of Templars in her wake.

First, she tried the guest chamber assigned to the elf; located opposite from their own across a small communal hallway. It was empty, but she saw - to her relief - that the elf's less cared for possessions were still neatly arranged on the dresser.

The queen glanced around the smaller, plainer bedchamber with slight envy, noticing the lack of gruesome or overly pious Chantry décor. Unlike the quarters assigned to the royal couple – which mostly served visiting church officials – this guest chamber was far more secular. It had plain, white-washed walls, an inoffensive oil painting of the old king Maric above the hearth, and moth-eaten velvet curtains hanging at the windows.

"Hm," Flora said out loud, swivelling her gaze around the empty chamber before reversing back into the curved corridor. "Have either of you seen an elf? With very light hair and dark eyes?"

This question was directed to her Templar escorts, who both gave grunts in the negative.

Flora frowned, then set off determinedly down the corridor. She did not know exactly _where _she was going, and had forgotten the identity of many of the chambers branching off the passageway. Ten minutes later, and she had made a complete circuit of the Circle Tower's fourth floor; ending up once again near the guest chambers.

There was a pair of Tranquil emerging from the chamber assigned to Teagan, one clutching a bundle of bedlinen and the other a crumb-scattered silver tray.

"Excuse me," said Flora, repeating the question that she had directed to a half-dozen others during her circumnavigation of the Tower. "Have you seen an elf? He is _this _much taller than me, with stripes on his face and black eyes."

"You make me sound like a zebra, _carina."_

The low, amused voice drifted from a nearby doorway, where the elf leaned casually against the frame with a bottle of Antivan brandy clutched in his hand.

Flora beamed, delighted to have caught her quarry.

"What's a _zebra?" _

"A striped horse," Zevran replied, the bottle dangling dangerously loose from his fingertips. "Found in the Rivaini desert and the _menageries _of Orlais."

Flora still had no idea what a _zebra _was – or a _menagerie _for that matter – but she was more focused on her elven companion. She padded past him into the plainer guest-chamber and sat down on the bed; relieved to take some of the weight off her feet. The Templars followed her dutifully inside, stationing themselves at either side of the doorway. Zevran continued to smile, a look of deliberate lightness writ across his features as he sauntered over to the dresser.

"I'd offer you a drink, _nena, _but I know you don't like the taste."

He poured himself another beaker of amber-coloured liquid, proud of the apparent steadiness of his hand.

"I came here looking for you just now," Flora said, watching the muscles in the elf's throat convulse as he drained the glass. "I hadn't seen you since last night, I was worried."

The elf finished the brandy before replying, corralling his thoughts into some sort of order. He replaced the cup on the dresser, the slight clatter of glass against wood betraying the infinitesimal tremor in his fingers.

"Ah, you need not worry about me, my Rialto lily! Zevran is always well," he replied, with carefully crafted merriment. "You are aware that I often seek out companionship at night, _sí? _And this particular companion was _most keen _to waylay me this morning, too."

Flora was not fooled by her friend's effervescence. She made no reply, but let her pale, Waking Sea eyes settle on him, there was no reproach there, but also no gullibility. She knew full-well that her companion's humour was a front, and had a suspicion as to his true feelings; but waited for him to come to a natural confession.

Finally, the elf's ears dropped a fraction. The fixedness of his smile slackened and he let out a small sigh, returning the brandy bottle to the dresser.

"Your stare could wear boulders down to sand, given enough time," he murmured, coming to sit beside her on the bed. "Have you eaten a hearty breakfast this morning, _carina?"_

The question confirmed Flora's suspicions, and she took a deep, steadying breath before speaking.

"I'm going to be _fine, _Zevran_," _she said, ignoring the manifest question and responding directly to its latent meaning. "It's not the same circumstances as with your mother, or with Alistair's. I'm going to have a midwife – probably about eighteen of them, if Alistair has his way – and healers at my side. And herbal tonics with expensive ingredients. And clean bed-linens. I promise, I'm _not _going to die."

Saying it out loud was actually rather reassuring, and Flora found herself sitting up a little straighter.

"Eighteen midwives and clean bed-linens may not be enough, _carina, _if your body cannot handle the exertions of labour," the elf replied, his voice indistinct. "You would not be the first queen to bleed out on expensive sheets."

"It won't happen to me," she replied, finding comfort in her own voiced certainty. "I've kept _them _safe since Ostagar. They've got to keep _me _safe on their… on their journey out. We've made a deal."

Despite his melancholy the elf smiled, shaking his head as he gazed down at his own elegant fingers.

"Are the little occupants of your belly aware of this deal?"

"Definitely," Flora replied, solemnly. "They've signed a legal agreement. A weever."

"_Waiver," _said Zevran, unable to stop himself from grinning at her. "A weever is a type of fish, as you well know, _mi amor!"_

There was silence for a moment, as Flora absentmindedly patted her swollen stomach, feeling a little nudge in response. The usual noises of the Circle echoed in the stone passageway outside; the acoustics of the Tower amplifying both muffled conversation and boot against stone.

"I am sorry for my melodramatics," the elf said suddenly, a rueful and humourless smile curving at the corner of his mouth. "The thought of your death is _anathema _to me. This- "

He made a gesture in the air, drawing an invisible skein between them.

"This,_ our friendship, _is the healthiest relationship I've ever had. Despite… despite everything."

"And because it is the healthiest, it is the most significant to me," he continued, instead. "The most important to Zevran; free man and _former _Crow. I would not take it well if… if you were no more, _nena."_

"But that's not going to happen," Flora reminded him, sternly. "Remember the _legal weever!"_

Zevran let out a rich and full-bodied Antivan chuckle; reaching out to pat her knee companionably.

"Ah, of course, _nena. _We mustn't forget the legal weever."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I wanted to show the two different reactions of Flora's closest companions to the news that her constitution isn't as strong as it should be. Alistair freaks out, prays, then stuffs her with food. Whereas Zevran goes off to find a willing partner and gets drunk! Both men had mothers who died in childbirth (or as far as Alistair knows) and so it's a deeply personal issue.


	113. Letters Of Consequence

The letters had been taken up in a bundle to a lofty chamber on the top floor of the Tower. Once the royal couple had arrived within the designated room, it quickly became apparent why this space had been assigned for correspondence. A high, lofty aperture – some marvel of Tevinter engineering - let in a deluge of pale August sun, flooding the room in a watery, gilded light. A long telescope tucked into a corner, along with an astrolabe that stood the height of the queen, suggested that the chamber doubled as an observatory during the moonlit hours.

The letters had been neatly arranged, according to their addressee, in small piles around a polished circular table. Irving had sent up two Tranquil scholars to serve as secretaries. Since both Alistair and Teagan preferred to handwrite their letters, the two scribes were quickly sent away.

The king recalled only too well how his wife had wept over her own poor literacy the last time that they had received letters, at South Reach. Grimly determined to prevent this from happening again, he had quietly requested that Wynne position herself at Flora's side to offer timely assistance. The senior enchanter, who had no need to write a letter to Irving in their current situation, readily agreed.

Eamon's dispatches to Alistair were long and detailed; the Chancellor of Ferelden ensuring that nothing was left out of his weekly memorandums. In his neat, sloping hand, the arl discussed the progress on the city wall (the dwarven builders' guild had nearly finished repairing the west tower), the activity within the docks (thriving, since the reopening of the maritime trade routes) and the general condition of the people (well enough; most of the refugees had either departed for the Marches or joined one of the local restoration committees. The lady Anora had taken a walk around the palace grounds – under heavy escort – and had managed to keep her chamber in a relatively clean state.

Alistair wrote a response in his own neat and meticulous hand, tapping the quill on the edge of the inkwell to get rid of the excess. He asked about the progress of the restoration committees, and whether the dwarven master-builder had chosen lime or sandstone cement to repair the walls. The official coronation portrait of himself and Flora had been completed; the king agreed that it should be hung within the entrance hall, near the doorway leading to the Landsmeet chamber. Trying not to laugh, Alistair also gave his permission for cheaper copies of the portrait to be created and sold; as long as any profit made was split between the restoration committees and the remaining refugees.

To finish off his letter, the king relayed the news that Flora was expecting twins, and that he wanted the most skilled midwives in Ferelden brought to the royal palace in preparation – including the nation's most capable healers.

_No expense is to be spared, _he wrote, digging the nib into the parchment with his conviction. _Pay to ferry someone all the way from the Anderfels if need be._

"Sounds like Rainesfere's had a decent sprouting of grain ," Teagan murmured, melting wax carefully onto a folded scroll to seal it. "Not quite as bountiful as Redcliffe, but should be more than sufficient to see the people through the winter."

"I think there's going to be a good harvest in the autumn," Alistair replied, shaking his head in slight disbelief. "Or, that's what Eamon predicts. I can't quite believe it – the land goes through a _Blight, _of all things, and still produces a decent reaping!"

He reached down a surreptitious hand beneath the table, caressing the small, bare toes curling in his lap.

Flora, who had her feet propped up on his thigh, peered at him beneath her eyelashes; a faint bloom of pink rising to her cheeks. She had been slightly awed at the _quantity _of letters that she had received. There had been notes from both of her brothers, one from Leliana, another from Arl Leonas, one from the dwarven master-builder, a brief scrawl from Oghren, and a final missive from the head of the Gwaren restoration committee.

With the gentle help of Wynne initially – and then Zevran too, once the elf had decided to join them – Flora laboured her way through the creation of suitable responses. Each reply would only be a few sentences – a brief comment on the subject of the letter, followed by a _thank you_ for their endeavours. To her brothers, Leliana, Leonas and Oghren, Flora added a little postscript at the bottom of each one: _alsso i am Havvinge Twince! _

It took her the same amount of time to craft one of these brief, three sentence responses as it did Alistair to dash off a side and a half to Eamon. Yet, Flora was determined not to compare her skill to her husband, but to _herself _from a year prior; thinking in this way, she felt a small surge of pride.

"How do you spell Lobster?" she whispered to Zevran, while mid-reply to Fergus. Her elder brother had written that the Mabari pups were growing large and _boisterous_ up at Highever – though this latter adjective had been crossed out and replaced with _loud; _a simpler piece of vocabulary for his formerly illiterate sister.

"_L,o,b,s,t,e,r," _Zevran replied, trying to eavesdrop on Alistair and Teagan's murmured exchange. The king was holding a missive with the Warden seal broken on the front; the elf recognised Loghain's neat, plain handwriting.

Flora copied the spelling and then looked down at what she had written: _"lopsta." _It looked reasonable enough to her, and so she put Fergus' reply to one side and reached for her last letter. It was written on cheap parchment, with _To Her Majesty the Queen _written on the front in elegantly scribed calligraphy.

Flora – who had needed assistance to read the italicised hand – opened the letter and blinked at its contents. The entire sheet was filled with delicate, sloped writing; the letters immediately began to crawl all over the page like a jar of loosed spiders.

"Sweetheart, I'm finished," Alistair offered, setting aside Loghain's missive from Warden's Vigil. "Shall I read it to you?"

Flora nodded gratefully - she had as much chance of reading the ornamental handwriting as she did transforming herself into a Morrigan-_esque _raven.

Alistair took the letter, eyes dropping to the name at the bottom.

"It's from Elder Valendrian," he said, one eyebrow rising. "The leader of the alienage."

In a quiet and clear voice, the king read out the contents of the letter. It explained that although the construction crew had not yet finished the gateway into the tidal estuary, the channel diverting the waste water away from the alienage water supply had been completed. Within mere weeks, the elder had seen a marked change in the purity of the water – provable not only by its clarity, but by the reduction of stomach complaints, choleras, and sicknesses amongst the young. The unsullied water had also allowed them to sprout seeds for the first time within the alienage's dusty soil.

"'_The alienage wishes to express its most sincere gratitude to the queen, on whose instruction the new water-channel was dug,'" _Alistair finished, softly. _"'And I am personally in your debt. Valendrian."_

When he looked up, a sniffling Flora had her face buried in her hands. She had experienced an unexpected and powerful surge of emotion at the letter's contents, which had combined with hormonal imbalance to produce a bout of tears.

_I helped, without magic, _she thought wildly to herself as Alistair almost fell over his chair in his haste to get to her. _I healed, without magic! _

The king reached her side, crouching beside her chair and looking frantically about his person for scrap of cloth.

"My love," he breathed, dabbing carefully at her wet cheeks with his sleeve instead. "My own sweet wife."

"I – I.. _without my magic -!" _she croaked in response, and Alistair could guess well enough what she meant. He took Wynne's proffered handkerchief and wiped more carefully at her face, taking a deep breath to steady himself before responding.

"My kind and compassionate girl," he murmured, leaning forwards to press his lips against her damp cheekbone. "You've done more good for those elves in two months than has been done in years."

"Decades," added Teagan, soberly. "It was a thing well done, poppet."

Slightly embarrassed, Flora sat up in the chair and scrubbed at her eyes, taking a deep, grounding breath as she reached for her ink-pen and a sheet of parchment. Slowly and carefully, she scribed out her response, biting her lip as she focused on the shapes of the letters.

Alistair, still crouched beside her chair, watched as a sentence sprouted across the paper: _thaink yeu Yeu are Walcom. florance the quene._

"Is that right?" she asked him after a moment, nudging the sheet of parchment in his direction.

"Perfect, my love," he said throatily, knowing that the elven elder would not think any less of Flora for her misspellings. "Now, I need a kiss from my beautiful wife to fortify me before I read this endless trade manifesto."

Alistair was still bravely making his way through the three-foot long scroll by the time that Flora had finished scribing the rest of her responses. Replacing her ink-pen, the queen shifted her position on the chair to better accommodate her stomach, watching Zevran make idle sketches on a spare sheet of parchment. He was in the middle of drawing a profile of Wynne, his shrewd eye and careful hand skilfully replicating the elder mage's lined, elegant features.

Wynne was oddly flattered, but hid it well. Instead, she pushed her reading-lens further up her nose and cleared her throat, half-reading a leatherbound journal.

"Keep still, Wynne," Zevran entreated as she went to take a sip of tea. "I am trying to perfectly capture the angle of your noble nose."

"Well, I didn't give you permission to capture my likeness," replied Wynne, without rancour. "I hope you don't expect me to sit here all afternoon. I shall be getting up soon."

The elf flashed her a lazy smile, eyes narrowed as he made small, precise marks on the parchment.

"Then I will have to rely upon my memory. Or, my imagination."

On Zevran's other side, Teagan raised his eyebrows in reluctant admiration as he surveyed the elf's work.

"That's very good. You've got a natural talent."

Zevran allowed himself a single moment to preen, finishing off the sketch of Wynne with a deft stroke of the ink-pen.

"I simply have a good eye and a steady hand," he replied, eyeing the completed profile in mild satisfaction. "But I thank you for your compliment. Perhaps I may become a court painter and make a fortune off wealthy patrons with heavy purses."

Teagan paused, both thoughtful and wistful at once. When he spoke next, his voice was lowered so that only the bann could hear it.

"Why not… ?"

The junior Guerrin sibling did not need to enunciate his point any more clearly; his head canted in a specific direction. The young queen of Ferelden was slumped back in her seat, one knee wedged up against the table to support the rounded weight of her stomach. Despite the careless languor of her body, her face in profile lost none of its arresting Alamarri beauty, the eyes pale as smoke, the mouth full and sulky. Thick ropes of carmine were strewn over her shoulders like strands of seaweed draped across the sand.

"I am many things, Bann Teagan, but I am no masochist," Zevran replied, quietly. "If she asks me, I will draw her; but otherwise I see no point in torturing myself- "

"Zevran?"

"_Mi sirenita?"_

"Would you draw me a lobster?" Flora implored, rousing herself from a gormless stupor.

"A lobster?"

"Mm. Then I will give it a score for aesthetic and _believeability."_

"_Claro!"_

A short while later Alistair took a brief respite from squinting down at the trade manifesto, obliging his wife's request to draw a seagull. His valiant attempt soon joined Zevran's lobster, Teagan's squid and Wynne's starfish; Flora was both fascinated and jealous of her companion's artistic abilities. Although Zevran was by far the most skilled in this area, both Wynne and Alistair had produced passable imitations.

"It's not fair that I'm the worst at writing _and _drawing," she said, having savagely slated her own unfortunate attempt at a jellyfish in both aesthetic and _believability. _"I don't have any talents!"

"You have _innumerable_ talents," her husband piped up, loyally. "Too many to count… or, uh, name."

Flora looked dubious, but reached out regardless to pat at Alistair's elbow in appreciation.

Alistair then continued to labour his way through the trade manifesto, painstakingly squinting down at the tiny, inked lines. He and Teagan made some brief discussion before scribing a response; the bann had a good knowledge of the trade relationship between the different Marcher states and could provide an informed opinion.

"You're good at this _international relations_ stuff, uncle," Alistair offered, setting the Theirin signet he wore on his small finger into the wax to seal it. "Have you ever considered a career as a diplomat?"

Teagan snorted, wiping his ink-splattered fingers on a square of linen before taking a long gulp of ale.

"What, and be driven mad by Orlesians all day? I'm not sure if I've got the patience for it."

Alistair laughed, shooting a glance up at the high window overhead. The sun was just beginning a gentle slide towards the horizon, the August sky a watery and insipid tone of blue. The previous night had been _All Soul's Day, _a traditional celebration where the memories of the dead – and Andraste's martyrdom – were honoured. In light of the recent tragedy at the Circle, the traditional festivities and balls were not considered appropriate; there had been a sombre Chantry service to mark the occasion instead.

"I think you'd need the patience of an Andrastrian disciple to deal with the court at Val Royeaux," the king admitted, cheerfully. "As much as I like Leliana, I don't think I could put up with four dozen versions of her all crammed into one ostentatious golden ballroom- "

As the king was speaking, he had been sorting through the last few letters. One note had not arrived with the bundled official correspondence from the palace; it had been sent separately to the Circle, and addressed simply '_urgent_ – _for the king.' _

Yet it was not the writing on the front that had snatched the air from Alistair's lungs, but the wax seal holding fast the letter's contents. Crudely stamped and yet unmistakeable: a tiny bear, one paw lifted.

The colour simultaneously drained from and rushed to Alistair's face; red blotches of anger flaring on his cheeks even as the rest of his skin turned wan. He shoved his chair away with a scraping of wood across stone, violently enough that it clattered back onto the flagstones. The others broke off their own occupations and stared at the king in surprise; watching him stride across the room to where Irving's secretary was waiting.

"Who delivered this here?" Alistair demanded, a raw vein of outrage running through the words. "Who was it? Was it – was it a man in his third decade? With dark hair and sallow features?"

"I-I don't know," the secretary stammered, cringing in the face of such Marician anger. "All letters to the Circle are received at the Calenhad Docks before being shipped across the lake."

Teagan's eyes fell on the sealed note and he inhaled sharply, jolted by sudden understanding.

"Maker's Breath – is that from- "

"_Howe," _snarled the king, his hazel eyes dark and furious as he turned back towards the table. "I _knew _it wasn't over with those base-born jackals! How many more of them are going to come crawling from the woodwork?"

He shot his wife a brief, agonised look before returning to the table, hurling his chair upright with a clatter. When he sat, it was with the trembling alertness of a Mabari poised to lunge; the note caught between rigid fingers.

"Could it be from the daughter? Delilah?" offered Wynne, tentatively.

"Doubtful," Teagan replied, his own expression grim and unamused. "She's publicly renounced her former name, she wouldn't use the Howe seal."

With a sharp intake of breath, Alistair tore the note open in a single swift jerk, splitting the wax bear in half. His eyes moved over the few lines contained within; reading them twice, then a third and fourth time. A crease worked its way into his forehead, the corner of his lip curling.

"What does it say?" Flora breathed, receiving no reply as Alistair struggled to process what he had just read.

Teagan reached out to gently pry the note from the king's fingers, clearing his throat.

"'_King Alistair,'" _the bann read, quietly. _"'I have made a grievous error in judgement, and the life of the queen is in danger. We need to meet. Send word to the Sleeping Mabari at West Hill – I am no longer there, but it will reach me. Nathaniel Howe.'"_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Aaaaah things were going far too smoothly! I had to throw a bit of drama into the mix. I liked this chapter for the update on the waste-water channel, where Flo realises that she's capable of 'healing without magic ' – or, in more prosaic terms, improving public health to reduce disease, haha.
> 
> Lol a bit of foreshadowing here with Teagan joking about being a foreign diplomat… sorry Teegs the hideous red and orange hat is in your future! I still can't get over TrespasserTeagan – bleeghhh


	114. Flailing With A Fish Hook

Teagan let Howe's note drop onto the table. Alistair shot the letter a single, agonised glance before his face went incandescent in anger. Reaching out, he snatched up the note and crumpled it in a fist, fury creeping in a crimson flush from his collar. The next moment his eyes fell on Flora, who had her arms crossed defensively over her stomach. Rising to his feet, Alistair covered the distance between them in a handful of strides, crouching to encompass his burgeoning family within a strong embrace.

"Don't fret, sweetheart," he said brightly with visibly forced calm, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. "Don't let yourself worry for a single _heartbeat. _I'll sort this… this mess out."

Flora eyed him anxiously, tunic rippling as a knee tested the boundaries of her womb. Alistair made himself smile reassuringly back at her, leaning forward to press a kiss to the centre of her forehead.

"I give you my word, my love," he murmured, although his attempt at calm was undermined by his visible struggle to maintain composure. "No harm will come to you, or the twins."

Alistair dropped his hand to her stomach, caressing the swollen mound with paternal affection before rising to his feet.

"Right," he said darkly, managing – with superhuman effort – to keep much of the rage from his voice. "What do you recommend, uncle? I'm not taking Flo anywhere near West Hill, not if Howe's been there recently."

"I wouldn't recommend that either of you go," Teagan replied, quietly. "I'd offer to go, but- "

"No, I want you to stay with us." Alistair finished the bann's sentence, blunt and uncompromising. "You're good with a blade, and there's none more loyal. Zev, I want you to stay, too. I know you probably want to go on the hunt, but… Flo is safe when she's with you."

"As you wish," the elf replied, with a faint, glimmering veil of menace draped over the words. "Anyone who so much as _breathes_ malignly in her direction will not have an intact throat for much longer."

Flora let out a slightly miserable _huff, _caught somewhere in the grey area between irritation and jitteriness. As one who had first been a mage, then a Warden; she had never felt _entirely _safe at any point in her life – the exception being the last few months. Ever since Thomas Howe had been found dangling in the undercroft below Revanloch's Chantry, the queen had been lulled into a false sense of security.

_But I was never really safe, _Flora thought, grimly. _I won't ever be safe, not when there's a Howe out there with a grudge against me. _

Alistair, muttering feverishly to Teagan while simultaneously snapping instructions to the secretary, glanced back towards his wife at the exact moment that this realisation dawned on her face. His own handsome features contorted in distress; he took one step towards her before spinning on his heel and hissing furiously in his uncle's ear.

"I won't _ever_ forgive Howe for this," he snarled, fingers clenched so hard into fists that they began to cramp. "Flo is meant to be keeping calm – she's supposed to be strengthening her constitution for the birth – and now this whoreson emerges from whatever rat-hole he's been hiding in?"

The moment this anger-fuelled rhetoric had been growled into Teagan's ear, Alistair strode back to his wife's side; crouching beside Flora and putting an arm about her shoulders once again. The king could not keep still, every muscle and sinew humming with tension.

"My love," he murmured, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Do you want to have a lie down? A nap? A snack?"

Flora shook her head decisively, her pale gaze sliding sideways from Alistair to where their elven companion quivered like a coiled spring.

"Zevran?"

"_Mi florita?"_

"You know when you offered to teach me how to defend myself?"

"_Sí, nena."_

"Can we have our first lesson this afternoon?"

A short time later, the royal couple returned to the wide external balcony on the east face of the tower, where the Templars had been drilling earlier. The basalt terrace was washed in watery sunlight, far emptier than it had been that morning. Only a handful of Chantry soldiers remained; two were sparring with carefully rehearsed motions and the other was beating a training dummy into submission.

Now it was Alistair's turn to sit on the stone bench beside the wall, although he brought no reading material to divert his attention. Instead, he was half-watching his wife and half-running through the contents of the letter in his head, fingers twitching on his thighs.

Flora had changed into various articles she deemed suitable for physical training – breeches, boots and one of Alistair's shirts. She had asked Alistair to tighten the strap on her knee and had tied her hair in an untidy knot on top of her head in preparation. Zevran had not needed to change his clothing; his usual garb was perfectly suited for fighting in.

The elf produced the two makeshift weapons from behind his back as Flora shifted on the flagstones before him, surreptitiously moving her weight off her weaker knee.

"Which one do you fancy starting with, _mi sirenita?"_

"The hook," Flora said after a moment, eyeing the viciously curved silver barb with incongruous fondness. "Aaah, it reminds me of this one time that my dad caught an eel the length of a _horse!_ He used a hook just like this to snare it."

Alistair eyed the vicious weapon, which Flora was grasping with – to give her credit – sound familiarity. He shifted unhappily on the stone bench, feeling oddly and unusually impotent; as though the crown atop his head and the Theirin seal on his finger lacked any real power.

_What use is being king? _he thought to himself, grimly. _If I can't even protect my own family. _

"If you get tired, _carina, _you must say," Zevran warned, going to retrieve one of the shorter wooden training blades used by junior Templars. "You are still sure you want to do this?"

Feeling a little wriggle inside her stomach Flora nodded determinedly, passing the hook from hand-to-hand.

"Yes!"

The elf turned towards her, the cast and mien of his body shifting into a more predatory lean. Strands of white-blond hair were pulled west by the wind, flickering in contrast against the rich umber of his skin.

"Now, _nena," _Zevran said, grimacing as he realised the impossibility of any would-be assassin using such a term of endearment. "I mean: now, _Florencia. _Let me see what you would do if you sensed impending danger."

Reflexively, Flora went to lift a shielding hand; arresting the movement after several inches as a fine blade of sadness inserted itself between her ribs. The elf eyed her, a flicker of sympathy in his own dark gaze.

_Not any longer, carina. No helpful spirits will be coming to aid you from now on. _

"_Alistair!" _she squealed instead, her eyes swivelling towards where her husband had immediately scrambled to his feet. "Alistaaair!"

Zevran rolled his eyes at her while Flora looked wholly unrepentant.

"Well, that _is _what I'd do if I was in danger!" she replied, as Alistair lowered himself to the bench once again. "It makes sense. Most of the time he's within earshot!"

"Well, this is what you can do during the rare occasions that he is _not_ within earshot," Zevran replied, lowering the wooden blade and reaching out to swivel her gently by the shoulder blades towards the training-dummy. "If there is someone in the room with you, put your back up against an object – a wall is best, not a door – but a table, or a dresser will do. We wish to cut down on the number of vulnerable sides we show to an enemy."

Flora happened to glance sideways; Alistair had his face in his hands. As she took a reflexive step towards him, Zevran reached out and swiped at her elbow gently with his fingers.

"_Focus, _Flora_. _This is important!"

Over the next hour and a half, Zevran began to introduce Flora to the various ways in which her beloved fishing hook could be transformed into a deadly weapon. He showed her how it could be used not only to slash and cut – a type of wound which lent itself well to the panicked flailing he suspected she would resort to – but also how it could intercept a blade and yank it free of an attacker's hand with a single twist.

Flora tried her best to follow the elf's instructions. She had none of the grace or agility bestowed on a natural fighter, and she had to pause frequently to catch her breath; perspiration trickling unpleasantly down the back of her neck. Fortunately the occupants of her stomach were asleep, nestled snug against their dividing membrane.

However, _willing_ was capable of carrying one a long way, and Flora was a daughter of both Highever and Herring. Although she was unaware that Eleanor Mac Eanraig had once skilfully defended by blade the wheel of her ship from three would-be boarders; she knew well enough that women from Herring were equal counterparts in toughness to their men. Flora had seen her mother – or, the woman she _thought_ had been her mother – hurl herself bodily at wreckers on the beach, using fists, feet and _even _teeth as weapons.

So with the legacy of both her known and unknown heritage coursing through her veins, Flora was determined to try her very best to overcome the obstacles of her burdensome body and personal inexperience.

In addition to this, Zevran proved to be an unusually tolerant instructor; more so than even Leliana or Sten. He had once been one of the Crow's most skilled children, and _patience _was a fundamental facet of an assassin's toolkit. In addition to this natural perseverance, Zevran was determined to play his part in securing the safety of the girl who had spared his life and freed him from his bonds without hesitation or expectation.

"_Nena, _I think that is enough for today," he observed at last, seeing a red-faced Flora reach once more for her water-pouch. "I do not wish to exhaust you, _carina." _

"You're calling me _carina _again," said Flora, who had noticed the unusual pause in the elf's profuse shower of endearments.

"Well, I am no longer your foe," Zevran countered, flashing her a white-toothed smile as he wiped a single drop of perspiration from his forehead. "Now, I am your friend again."

"You're always my friend," she replied earnestly, putting an affectionate arm around his neck and pressing her sweaty cheek against his. "_Especially _in doing this. Thank you."

"You are most welcome, _mi amor."_

Zevran gathered up the fishing-hook and the descaling blade, grimacing up at the gathering clouds overhead. He let out a dark mutter on the nature of Fereldan weather, vanishing inside before a drop of rain could dampen his neatly braided hair.

"Flo?"

Alistair's voice snared Flora like a hook; she swivelled obediently on the spot and turned her face towards her husband. The king covered the distance between them in a handful of strides, the determination writ raw across his handsome features. Reaching down, he cupped her face between his hands; bending to press his lips to her forehead.

"You're not worn out after all that?" he asked, anxiously. "If this is too much for you, you don't have to do it. You _know_ I'll protect you to my last breath."

Flora reached up and rested her palm on the back of his hand, feeling the calloused knuckles against her skin.

"I do know," she breathed, earnestly. "And I'm grateful for it. But I want to learn how to defend myself. I hate the thought that I'm- that I'm _vulnerable_, now. I've never been _vulnerable. _I was better able to protect myself when I was_ six_ years old!"

Alistair's face contorted once again in an involuntary grimace. Instead of replying, he pressed another quiet kiss to her forehead; determined that his wife would _never_ be put in a position where self-defence was necessary.

While Flora returned to the guest chamber for a bath and a brief nap after her exertions on the balcony, Alistair and Teagan met with Ser Gilmore. The Cousland knight had travelled across by small boat from the shore and they had conducted a brief, fervent meeting within the Circle's receiving area. Ser Gilmore had as much cause as any to retain anger against the Howe family – he had been at Highever during the arl's treachery, and had received the wound to his face in its futile defence. As Alistair had expected, the knight was outraged by the implication that the queen was in danger, readily agreeing to travel to West Hill and investigate further. Ser Gilmore was provisioned with enough food and supplies to continue his journey alone; he promised to leave at the crack of dawn.

The light in the air was beginning to fade as evening drew in on the royal company's fourth day in the Circle tower. With August's commencement, night arrived in quicker increments each day; the first pinkish-gold streaks of sunset manifesting well before dinner. Faint promises of stars lurked overhead, like the hovering ghosts of constellations awaiting nightfall.

The king offered little in the way of conversation as they climbed the steps back to the fourth floor. Teagan, well aware that his nephew was still brooding over Howe's letter, made a valiant attempt to distract him.

"It bewilders me how so many of these mages get soft around the abdomen," he commented as they embarked upon the third flight of steps. "You'd think they would be in the peak of fitness clambering around these staircases all day. I remember when you and Flora first arrived at Redcliffe; she was just a slip of a girl."

Teagan found it increasingly difficult to remember Flora's physicality _before _the news of her child-bearing, since her figure had been disguised by loose clothing and swollen belly in turn for the past five months.

"Flo was only skinny because she went up and down to the kitchens multiple times a day," Alistair replied, half-smiling ruefully. "She told me. Instead of studying in the library, she'd trek the two hundred steps to the food cupboards. It reminded me of when I first joined the Wardens, and I had the most ridiculous appetite. I devoured food like a Mabari."

"You always had a hearty appetite, even as a boy," Teagan replied, lifting his shoulders and raising his chin in preparation for the final flight of steps.

"I was a _glutton _after my Joining – the ritual where you become a Warden," Alistair continued, unsure how much his uncle understood of such practices. "The others used to laugh themselves hoarse at me because I'd eat a bowl of stew so ferociously that half of it would end up down my shirt. Duncan never laughed, though. I think he understood."

Teagan nodded, he had met the old, increasingly grim-faced Rivaini Warden-Commander on a number of occasions in recent years. Like most Fereldan nobility, the bann had believed Duncan to be unnecessarily scare-mongering – especially in recent years. _The Darkspawn have always seethed below the surface,_ the Fereldan lords had retorted in response to the Rivaini's warnings. _Why do you need more funds now? Why do you want permission to enforce conscription of our retainers? Of course there isn't a Blight. Why would there be a Blight in Ferelden? The Maker would surely direct such things to Val Royeaux's doorstep for the Orlesians to deal with._

_Fortunately_, Teagan reflected as they reached the fourth floor, _Cailan had heeded the Commander's dire warnings. _The young king had raised a tax to pay for the Wardens' newest recruitment drive, and Duncan had travelled about the land in search of those with the stomach and nerve to fight the Darkspawn.

"Speaking of Duncan," the bann said, while Alistair blinked as though rousing himself from a daydream. "The First Enchanter has got that bundle of his letters; thought you might want to keep the set for posterity. We could read them."

_Might take your mind off Howe, _the bann thought to himself.

Alistair gave a nod, his expression still lost in thought.

"Yes," he replied, slowly. "It'd be nice to… to have something of Duncan's, to remember him by. _After_ dinner, though. I'm going to stuff my wife's sweet little face with food until her cheeks stick out like a squirrel."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Flo isn't wrong when she says that she was better able to defend herself as a six year old, which is a bit pathetic! How can you spend almost a year in the company of some of the best fighters in Thedas, and have literally learnt NOTHING? Oh well, at least she's got the familiar fish-hook and descaling knife to practice with.
> 
> Alistair is NOT dealing well with the prospect of his wife being in danger though, which is actually fair enough, haha.


	115. The Last Letters Of Duncan

Alistair had not been speaking in jest. King, queen and company dined within the bedchamber ascribed to the royal couple, which was naturally the largest. A round wooden table had been brought in and set up with chairs, then covered with a myriad of bowls, platters and tureens. A thick stew made from market vegetables was crowded beside a tray of meats, pates and cheeses, a giant butternut squash had been roasted and filled with a savoury casserole; for dessert, there was a vast and impossibly rich fruit pie oozing with cream.

The king eagerly tucked in – he had not lost his voracious appetite with the removal of the taint – but interrupted his own consumption by adding extra spoonfuls to Flora's plate. Every time she glanced away, Alistair would surreptitiously pile another fork-load of root vegetable pie atop her boiled potatoes, or beguile her into eating a plum tomato from his fingers.

"I can see what you're doing!" she mumbled indignantly through a mouthful of mashed swede, immediately receiving a look of reprimand from Wynne.

"What?" asked Alistair, tapping his wife gently on the cheek to pop another slice of cinnamon-speckled banana between her lips. "Darling, I don't know _what _you're talking about."

"My food is _multiploxing _on my plate," she retorted, duly swallowing the banana. "I only had three boiled potatoes on there just now, and now there are… _tweleven."_

"'Multiploxing'? 'Tweleven?'" Teagan mouthed to Wynne; the senior enchanter snorted and shrugged.

"Perhaps your potatoes are _breeding," _Zevran suggested, with a sly grin and a wink at Alistair. "Ah, _look! _A flying fish!"

The elf shot an urgent tattooed finger towards the window. Flora's head immediately swivelled, eyes widening as she squinted between the half-closed curtains.

"Whaa?! _Where?_"

"Oh, you missed it, _nena," _Zevran crooned, pulling a sympathetic face. "Never mind."

Flora looked back down at her plate, and her jaw dropped. Half of the butternut squash had materialised before her, balanced precariously on top of the pile of potatoes. She shot a suspicious look at Alistair, who assumed an expression of innocence.

"What's wrong, my love?"

"Shenanigans!" the queen replied, indignantly. "I've eaten half of the food on this table already."

"You're eating for _three,_" Alistair reminded her, sternly. "I'm going to fatten you up like a prize pig before you give birth, darling. I want you nice and plump."

_And strong, _the king thought grimly to himself as he watched Flora valiantly fork up a mouthful of roasted squash. _And with the constitution of an ox._

Despite her misgivings, Flora managed to make her way through the pile of food, wondering idly if she might actually _split her leggings. _Already it took her and Alistair a concerted and coordinated effort to force the leather trousers on every morning – she was not yet ready to admit defeat and resort to one of the dreaded _gowns _that Leliana had ambitiously packed.

After they had finished off the rich, Fereldan-fruit pie, Teagan headed down the corridor to fetch the bundle of correspondence from Irving's study. A small handful of Tranquil servants entered to clear away the empty bowls, tureens and platters; balancing the silverware precariously on trays.

Zevran wandered across to the window, leaning against the stone and fiddling idly with the frayed tie bundling the curtain back. Alistair was still plying his wife with food, a bowl of sugared almonds set on the table between them. He was trying to come up with increasingly creative ways to beguile her into eating; finally resorting to plain bribery.

"For every question you get right, you can have an almond," he said, then noticed that Flora was busy gnawing on the wooden spoon. _"_Are you listening, my little beaver?"

"Mm," she mumbled, unable to ignore the strange cravings of her body. "I'm not very good at giving answers. Or, _correct _answers, anyway."

"What's the name of the leader of Orlais?"

"Um. _Ceiling."_ replied Flora vaguely, distracted by thoughts of flying fish.

Alistair let out a delighted bark of laughter, the green flecks in his hazel irises standing out bright. His wife smiled vaguely at him, aware that she had probably got the answer wrong but pleased at provoking such a reaction.

"Well, I can't wait for our first diplomatic meeting with Empress Ceiling," he announced, sliding the bowl of almonds towards her. "You get as many as you like for that little gem."

"I feel as though such a meeting might end up in the resumption of Orlo-Fereldan hostilities," Wynne murmured to Zevran, who gave a snort.

"Alistair, my dear," the elf continued, pushing himself elegantly away from the window frame. "What exactly are these letters from your old commander supposed to contain?"

Alistair's face immediately fell into a more serious cast, his eyes darkening.

"I don't know anything about their _actual_ contents," he replied, quietly. "I know that Duncan was writing to different Warden-Commanders – including to Weisshaupt – while we were at Ostagar. Apparently, some of the correspondence between himself and the Marches Commander survived."

Zevran returned to his seat at the table, giving a soft murmur of thanks in Antivan to an utterly unconcerned Tranquil with a wine-jug. Once the Tranquil had departed and the company was alone in the chamber the elf picked up the thread of his thought.

"It is a shame that the other commanders did not send their own forces to bolster the Fereldan Wardens at Ostagar," he said, lifting the wine cup to his lips. After taking a sip, he immediately grimaced and delicately replaced the cup on the table.

Alistair's shoulder rose and fell in a rueful shrug, a shadow firmly in place across his face.

"I imagine for the same reasons that Cailan wouldn't countenance the conscription of the mages, dwarves and elves," the king replied, softly. "Glory doesn't shine as brightly when it's spread too thin."

"Which makes no sense," Zevran observed, arch as ever. "Since gold leaf is just as brilliant as solid gold. Cailan would not be the first king whose pride led to his downfall. The kings of Antiva seem to be making it a _habit."_

"Why would the Marches commander send their letters back to Ferelden?" spoke up Flora, suddenly. "A letter is meant to be private, and read only by the person it's addressed to. If _I _had letters from Duncan, I wouldn't give them up for anything!"

Zevran, who had intercepted his fair share of correspondence over the years, bit back a giggle.

"Well, I imagine the Marches commander thought that the letters might hold some historic significance," Wynne interjected, lowering her journal and tapping her ink-pen against its pot. "I assume that both you and Alistair are mentioned within their contents."

The king and queen shared a quick glance; his eyebrows rising and her eyes widening. Almost without realising, Alistair sat up a little straighter in his seat, swallowing. He reached out a hand towards Flora, who anchored his fingers tightly against her palm.

Zevran smiled, a curious light flickering within his dark pupils as he watched them.

"Like two Mabari pups eager for a scrap of meat," he observed, not unkindly. "This Duncan must have meant a great deal to both of you."

Alistair thought for a moment before responding, his handsome brow furrowing. Since becoming king he had outgrown the habit of opening his mouth, pausing and then blinking as he waited for words to come – now, Alistair paused to gather his thoughts in precedence to his response.

"Duncan was my mentor," he said eventually, a distant timbre to his voice. "He could have recruited any junior Templar, but… he chose _me. _Even though I wasn't the most skilled, or the quickest on my feet. And then he put me in charge of taking out the new recruits into the Wilds. I know it doesn't sound like much, but it – it was the first time that anyone had ever trusted me – _me!- _with anything important."

There was a short pause after Alistair finished speaking. Flora knew that the elf was looking at her, waiting for her to add her own reflections on the significance of Duncan. Two months prior, she would have been able to give a coherent answer; but with her body in a state of physical and emotional flux, she did not quite know how to shape a response. Suddenly, she thought that she might cry.

Fortunately, Alistair – who had spotted the slight tremor in his wife's nail-bitten fingers – spoke up in her stead.

"Nobody at the Circle ever realised how Flo's magic worked," he offered quietly, placing a surreptitious hand on her knee beneath the table. "They all thought she was a bit – a bit, well, _useless_. Duncan was the first to recognise that she was a spirit healer – and a very _good _one. He never saw her restricted abilities as a limitation."

"The Warden-Commander was from Rivain," Wynne added, quietly unscrewing the components of her ink-pen and replacing them in their leather pouch. "They don't follow the Andrastrian faith that far north, and mages are far more integrated into society. Those who correspond with the spirits are _revered, _rather than feared. Duncan would have been familiar with the signs."

Flora bit at her lip; the senior enchanter had hit the nail precisely on the head. The Rivaini native had spent time with the desert tribes of the north, where wise women convened with the denizens of the Fade on regular intervals. Duncan had noticed Flora's frequent pauses before her actions; the periods of silence where she tilted her head to the side as though listening to some surreptitious whisper; the times when she had referred to her ability in the plural: _We can do it. We aren't tired. _He had also observed her seemingly inexhaustible supply of energy – her shields had not wavered in potency even after being assaulted over prolonged periods – and realised quickly that she was acting as a conduit for some greater force; rather than independently drawing power through the Veil.

_You are a spirit healer, _he had once said to her, on the mist-covered ramparts of decrepit Ostagar._ I'd bet my last gold diram on it, Flora of Herring _

_I knew I'd made a sound choice when I recruited you. You have a rare and fortuitous gift, young sister._

Just then, the door swung open and Teagan made his entrance, a polished wooden box positioned carefully in his arms. Alistair sat bolt upright as though somebody had jabbed an elbow into his ribs; his eyes immediately settling on the case.

"Is that – is it- "

"Aye," replied the bann, advancing towards the table as Zevran brought over several more candlesticks from the mantle.

Alistair hastily reached out and brushed away the crumbs left in the wake of dinner, his hazel stare fixed on the case's gleaming wooden lid. There had been nothing left of Duncan after the Darkspawn had overrun their defences in the valley; no remains to immortalise in burial or encase in memorial. These letters, written in Duncan's own hand, took on an especial significance for the two who had been – for a short time – the _only _Grey Wardens left in Ferelden.

The bann set the box down in the centre of the table. A quick glance sideways confirmed to the king that Flora too was gazing wordlessly at it. Her aloof and lovely face betrayed little visible emotion, but her eyes were wide with tremulous anticipation.

"The First Enchanter says that they're in dated order," Teagan explained, taking a seat as Alistair almost reached for the box and then hesitated. "And that, despite representing only Duncan's side of the exchange, their message is still intelligible."

Alistair nodded and swallowed, suddenly and irrationally nervous. He reached out and flicked up the brass clasp with a finger, revealing a wedge of letters placed neatly within. He inhaled sharply, immediately recognising Duncan's plain, austere hand; the language terse and economical, the hand of a man with little time. Alistair was more familiar with Duncan's handwriting – having often been the recipient of various notes and messages while they were stationed at Ostagar. Flora, on the other hand, had never seen it before. Duncan was aware that his new healer was illiterate, and so messages were passed on to her either verbally – or in person.

Without a word, the king lifted the letters out and spread them over the table, handling each as though it were made of spiderwebs. There were some longer missives, alongside briefly scrawled notes and the occasional annotated map; most letters were a single small sheet of parchment. A handful were torn at the edge, many were splattered by rain from a Fereldan autumn.

A Tranquil entered unobtrusively to add more cedar logs to the hearth. Evening had truly drawn in by this point, yet those gathered at the table paid no heed to the damp and cold surroundings. A half-dozen candlesticks illuminated the polished wood; casting a warm and flickering light over the sole remaining material presence of the old Warden-Commander.

Alistair reached out for the first letter, a nondescript square of parchment. Clearing his throat and wetting his lips with his tongue, he read it aloud. The language, reflecting the character of the author, was mostly perfunctory and dry – yet there were occasional flashes of wry wit; the odd dry comment or glimpse of humour. It was, after all, extracts from the _personal_ correspondence between the two Warden-Commanders.

"'_Two more regiments of the Royal Army arrived today. There's no more room within the fortress, they've been sent down to the lower slopes to make camp. The General returned with them from Denerim. I've yet to see Loghain's face set in anything other than a scowl.'"_

Despite the poignancy of the circumstances Alistair smiled; perfectly able to envision his old mentor articulating such a statement. He swallowed hard and then kept reading, the faintest tremor in his voice.

"'_A regiment of Surface dwarves arrived to set up siege weaponry on the lower ramparts. I've requested that Cailan use the Warden treaties to summon aid from the dwarves of Orzammar, as well as our other allies – as you well know, they're duty-bound to come to our assistance. He refuses. I shall ask him once again once youthful pride tempers into mature reason.'" _

The king grimaced involuntarily, not wanting to speak ill of the dead but unable to stop the frustration from flickering across his face.

"If only- " he started, and then trailed off, glancing over at his wife. "If the Blight had been stopped at Ostagar and the Darkspawn defeated, how many lives would have been saved? How many _towns? _Lothering? South Reach?"

A grave-eyed Flora gazed back at him, then reached out a hand silently across the table. Alistair took it, clasping their fingers together and kissing her knuckles, keeping their hands entwined as he followed his thoughts to their logical conclusion.

"I mean, Duncan would still be dead," he said, heavily. "If the Archdemon was slain at Ostagar, he would have taken the final blow. He still wouldn't be here."

Alistair allowed himself a single, bittersweet moment of uchronic fantasy; envisioning Duncan alive and well as the leader of the Fereldan Wardens in a post-Blight world.

"Right," he then said briskly, clearing his mind of wistful conjecture. "What's in this next one?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Oozing is probably one of my least favourite words – I'm not a huge fan of onomatopoeic words (BANG! Really?!), I hate it almost as much as MOIST. I get a bit obsessed over linguistics – I was once reading a label on my (100% polyester) coat to someone at work and was like "DO YOU KNOW that inflammable and flammable both mean the same because inflammable is related to the old word inflame – or enflame - which means to catch fire. And they literally were like STFU who cares. I felt like saying WELL WHO CARES about the history of WOOL?! (his specialism is the history of textile manufacturing, and his thesis is actually super interesting, haha).
> 
> OK so here's a word that I love but that spellcheck doesn't acknowledge … uchronic! It sort of means 'alternate history' but without putting a specific time period/context on it. I couldn't resist sneaking in a few more Flo-isms(. MULTIPLOXING and TWELEVEN.


	116. The Warden-Commander’s Correspondence

The next set of Duncan's correspondence ran along similar themes – detailing the construction of the defences at Ostagar, the arrival of various regiments of the Royal Army, and the refusal of Cailan to utilise the old treaties. There was a strong undercurrent of frustration running through the senior commander's words, measured and articulate as they were. In response to what must have been the Marcher commander's suggestion that he summon the armies regardless of the king's wishes, Duncan reminded the other man of the fragile relationship between Ferelden's kings and its Wardens.

"'_It's not been long since Maric and the Wardens reconciled,'" _Alistair read, deliberately neutral. _"'There are many who still think that the Order are traitors; I'd not add fuel to the fire.'" _

A short while later, Teagan made a soft exclamation; his bruised-leaf green eyes focused on the page before him.

"Here's mention of you, Alistair."

Alistair's head snapped upright, indescribable emotion flaring across his face.

"What – what did he say?" he asked, with mingled anticipation and trepidation.

"'_My junior officer Alistair showed great bravery in the Wilds today with the Dalish recruits, though I still believe he is holding back a part of his strength. I don't know whether it's through over-caution, or years of formal Templar drill – I need him to unshackle the bindings of his own restraint. The Darkspawn fight brutally and without inhibition; he must do the same.'"_

Teagan's eyes moved to a second letter, which was clearly a reply to an enquiry from the Marcher commander.

"'_You know I can't disclose his identity through here – I'm sure that General Mac Tir intercepts my letters. It's enough for you to know that he's the son of someone significant; important enough that I intend to keep him safe. The others believe that I favour the lad, and they treat him the worse for it. Still, despite their jibes, Alistair is always the one they want at their back when they go into the Wilds.'" _

"That one is from August, a year ago," Alistair said, leaning across to point at the date. "Right before we went on the last tour of recruitment."

Flora had spotted one letter with a familiar ink-stamp in one corner; a blotchy wreath of laurel. She reached for it, gripping the letter delicately between fingertips that were almost reverent; not wanting to smudge her old commander's meticulously scribed words.

"Is this one from Highever?"

Alistair took it, clearing his throat as he prepared to read.

"'_Cousland has been a gracious host, but can spare neither of his sons to the cause. The elder has already set off to join the Royal Army, and the younger is studying in Orlais (for some reason). The teyrn made the joke that if he were ten years younger, he would take the oath himself. This did not go down well with the teyrna, who suggested that her husband had been too much at the ale.'"_

Once again, Flora felt the peculiar pang in her chest that always rose when her birth-parents were mentioned. Despite her memories of Highever being newly uncovered, she still had scant recollection of them – blurred glimpses of faces, a deep belly-laugh, a smell of oakwood perfume. She half-remembered riding before someone on a saddle, through a town filled with staring faces.

"Are there any letters from when Duncan went to the Circle?" she asked, in swift self-diversion.

"Not from the Circle itself, but there's a note here which mentions the new recruits gained during Kingsway," Teagan offered, almost reflexively sliding the paper across the table before realising that she couldn't read it. "Ahem- this is what it says. '_Two of my senior officers, Elwin and Ogsmir, found a good recruit in the city of Orzammar. A dwarf from their lower caste; the fight runs in his veins like iron in the blood. Name of Brosca. He takes on the Darkspawn like he's got an age-old grudge against them. _

_One of the men from the Royal Army was caught trying to desert. The General was ready to execute him, but I recruited him into the Wardens at the last moment. Loghain was none too happy, but the right of conscription trumps his own authority. I don't think the man will survive the Joining, his disposition seems the nervous sort.'"_

Teagan paused for a moment, drawing the attention of the others. Flora stared at him, her breath caught on a baithook; waiting for her mention in Duncan's own hand.

"'_Finally, I've saved my most curious acquisition 'til last,'" _the bann read, softly. _"'A mage from the Circle; young, and yet I believe she shows great promise. She breathes magic as easy and natural as air. Never more have I regretted the moth-holes in my memory; her countenance reminds me of something and yet I cannot retrieve it from my mind. Still, it won't be any hardship to gaze at that comely face while I try and remember." _

The bann read the last sentence while maintaining a carefully neutral expression. Alistair's face had settled into a vaguely startled indignation; he had to physically stop himself from putting a possessive and _entirely irrational_ hand on Flora's knee.

Flora, meanwhile, was enchanted by Duncan's remark that she _breathed magic as easy and natural as air. _

"That's nice," she said wistfully, loosening her hair from its plump, untidy braid. "He writes – wrote - a lot more _eloquack _than he ever spoke."

"_Eloquent," _corrected Wynne, her tone brisk. "And Alistair, you look like a rabbit come face to face with a Mabari. Surely it's not a shock that a grown man found your former sister-warden attractive?"

"Of course not," retorted Alistair, reclaiming his composure. "I'm used to it. I just – I just thought Duncan would be immune to that sort of thing. Since he had the _Blight _to worry about."

"I'm not sure you can become immune to _that," _Zevran murmured, canting his head sideways to where Flora was sitting. "If you discover a way, kindly inform me."

Duncan's _curious acquisition _was languid in her chair, absentmindedly combing out a tangle with her fingers. Despite the smudge of ink on her cheek and the prominent swell of her stomach, there was something oddly beguiling about her grave-faced, full-lipped contemplation. Her eyes, pale as smoke, were caught in daydreams; a curling strand of oxblood drifting against the naked contour of her collarbone.

"I need the privy," Flora then announced, heaving herself gracelessly to her feet. "I think five times in an hour is a new _record."_

Alistair's head swivelled as she passed; he reached out to touch her trailing fingers with a brief possessiveness. She smiled down at him, her cheeks flushed from sitting beside the hearth.

"Here's one where Duncan speaks plainly on Cailan," Wynne offered, her eyes fixed on a grubby-edged sheet of parchment. "If Loghain _was _intercepting the messages, I wonder what he made of such blunt comment on his son-in-law. Listen to this: _There are rumours running wild in the camp. An Orlesian ambassador was sighted leaving the king's tent, and the soldiers are full of speculation. I don't give a shit if Orlais sends a legion across the border, as long as they come to aid the efforts against the Blight. If there's any truth in the rumour, I won't hold back on summoning the armies within Ferelden that owe allegiance to the Wardens. To the fel with the king's pride; if he's willing to share his victory with Orlesians, he'll have to share it with elves, dwarves and mages too. I've tolerated his vanity too long.'"_

There was a silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Teagan grimaced, summoning the memory of his sister's feckless and bold-hearted son. He had not spent a great deal of time with his nephew – Rainesfere had required close oversight over the past few years due to a persistent banditry problem – and suddenly he regretted not coming to Denerim more often.

Alistair, Zevran and Wynne shared a quick glance – they had, after all, seen Cailan's intentions with their own eyes; the king's overture to the Empress Celene written in his impatient, scrawling hand. The letters which they had retrieved from Ostagar had been given to Eamon for safekeeping. Nobody wanted Cailan's secret intentions to be made public – although Maric's eldest son was ten months dead, the news that he had been parlaying with Orlais might well reopen old wounds.

A servant entered unobtrusively to add another handful of logs to the hearth. Alistair swivelled his head the moment that the door swung open; deflating visibly on seeing that it was not his wife. Although Flora had been escorted to the privy by one of the grim-faced Templar, this was not enough to entirely assuage his concerns.

"Alistair," Zevran offered, sliding a scroll across the table with an elegantly, faintly tattooed finger. "Here is another mention of you."

As the elf had hoped, Alistair was temporarily distracted from his own worry; drawing the letter closer and gazing down at it.

"'_As I hoped, pairing my new mage with my over-cautious junior officer has been a triumph, even if I say so myself. With her shield at his back, Alistair unleashes the coarse edge of his rage in battle; finally, the lad is using his instinct. He's got great potential.'"_

Even ten months after his death, Duncan's praise still had the ability to bring a flush of quiet delight to its recipient's face. Alistair inhaled unsteadily, his eyes moving over that final sentence scribed in the Warden-Commander's own hand. He read it several times to himself, mouthing the words like a benediction.

"I never knew he wrote about me," he said quietly at last, only the faintest vein of unsteadiness running through the words. "At the time. He sounds as though he was – he was _proud _of me."

"Why wouldn't he have been?" countered Wynne, gently. "You always try your best at everything you put your hand to, Alistair. It's one of your greatest qualities."

Alistair was unable to stop himself from grinning, a faint flush warming the cool olive tones of his cheeks.

"Stop, or I won't be able to fit my head through the door," he said hastily, taking a gulp of ale. "They'll need to remove the window-frame and lower me down on the winch. Is there any other mention of Flo?"

Teagan, who had been reading a note with a slightly odd expression, cleared his throat; gesturing to the parchment before him.

"'_Anyway, the girl's abilities may be limited but they make up for in potency what they lack in range. She inhaled the taint from the poor sod and he was hale by evening watch. I've never seen anything like it, my friend. Think of what it could mean for our order. Though if you write to Weisshaupt on the matter before me, I'll swim the Waking Sea and cut your balls off myself.' _Sorry, Wynne."

The old mage snorted and waved a hand, while a nosy Zevran craned his neck to read over Teagan's shoulder.

"You missed out the first part of the note!" he observed, beadily.

"Ah – I don't think that's necessary for Alistair to hear- "

"Eh?" said Alistair, ears pricking. "What?"

"'_I haven't, you old lecher, and I don't intend to either,'" _read out the elf in gleeful tones. _"'Though if she were a decade older, aye, I'd gladly invite her into my tent. What man wouldn’t?’”_

Zevran giggled as the corner of Alistair's mouth twisted; one eye twitching as he processed this startling new information.

"Well," the king offered at last, coughing and shifting in his seat. "Flo… Flo's gorgeous. It's not surprising that he… that Duncan might have… _anyway." _

There was a pause and then he spoke again, a fraction more firmly.

"Let's not mention this to her, though. She hero-worships our old commander, and I don't… I don't want her to feel oddly about it."

"Oddly about what?" asked Flora, padding back into the room with a yawn. "Sorry I was ages, I got stuck in the privy. They don't size them for people about to give birth."

"Nothing, darling," Alistair replied hastily, as Zevran let out a wicked cackle. "Right, I think it's about time for evening snacks. What do you fancy, my love: an entire wheel of cheese or a foot-long loaf of bread?"

"Um," said Flora, with slight trepidation. "The cheese."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh daddy Duncan you were too fine to die! Fuck Loghain!!!


	117. Maternal Aching

Once the queen had eaten as much bread and cheese as her belly could hold, she and the king retired early. They would be leaving the Circle tower at dawn the next morning, _en route _to their penultimate destination – the tiny fishing village of Herring. It would take three days of journeying; possibly two, if the weather was favourable.

Both Flora and Alistair were suffering from indigestion- she, due to pressure from outside the walls of her gut, and he due to pressure from within. To encourage Flora to eat as much as possible, Alistair had boldly declared that he too would _eat for two – _and take a double mouthful for every one of hers.

In addition, the queen had a pain in her back that brought her to the verge of tears. She had learnt to live with the constant dull ache in the base of her spine; but tonight it felt as though each muscle and sinew was being yanked in different directions. Flora could not work out what had caused the usual ache to take on such a ferocious edge that evening; regardless, there was no respite from the discomfort. She had soaked herself in warm bathwater, limped back and forth before the hearth to work the muscles, sat as close to the hearth as she could bear. Alistair had tried to rub her back as best he was able; but he was more accustomed to easing the tension in her knee, and did not know the techniques that would help.

Nothing _had_ helped, and so now a thoroughly miserable Flora lay curled in a foetal position around her stomach, the blankets tangled about her legs. One advantage of Flora's former abilities had been that no injury or ache ever lasted longer than a few minutes – her body had been naturally self-anaesthetising, and a quick touch of her fingers was all that was required to instantly alleviate any ailment. Now, she was thoroughly helpless in the face of her own body's torments.

Alistair, who had thrust his own digestive discomfort to one side, was not coping well either with the concept of his wife in pain. His heart beat a rapid staccato against his chest; he had paced the room like a caged lion and snapped at the nonchalant Tranquil as they restocked the hearth. Turning back towards the bed, he was horrified to see tears sliding down his wife's face, trickling onto the fold of blanket beneath her cheek.

"Sweetheart," he breathed in distress, leaping across the rug-covered flagstones and crouching at her side. "What can I do to help you? It kills me to see you hurting."

"Nothing, nothing," Flora croaked back, melodramatically. "Nobody can help me. Only my spirits, and they're _gone." _

She closed her eyes tightly, feeling hot liquid seep out from beneath her eyelashes. A moment later, Flora heard Alistair push himself to his feet; the thud of his boots resonating against the flagstones. This was followed by the creak of the door opening, then low, whispered conversation between king and the Templar standing guard.

Flora stopped paying attention shortly afterwards, turning her cheek into the blanket and feeling thoroughly sorry for herself. One of the twins gave a tentative prod from within her belly, and despite her resentment, she reached down to pat the mound of flesh. The movement sent another jolt of pain down her spine and she went rigid mid-pat, vaguely nauseous by the pervasive ache. Tears filled her eyes once more, refracting the light from the hearth into bright pinpricks across her blurred vision; she sniffled, feeling suddenly very sorry for herself.

An indeterminate amount of time passed and then she became aware of a gentle pressure against her cheek; a slender, nut-brown finger tenderly stroking the blotchy skin.

"So, at _long_ _last_ you have taken me up on my offer, _nena_," murmured a dry and accented voice from somewhere above her. "I admit, I did not quite envision _these _circumstances, but far be it from me to complain."

Flora, vaguely confused, opened an eye to see Zevran's lean, leather-clad thigh several inches away. She heard anxious footsteps approach, and then a hushed, half-intelligible exchange of conversation. The next moment, she felt the mattress dip and then the familiar grip of her husband's strong arms; easing her upright as she instinctively slid her arms around his neck.

"Come on, my love," Alistair murmured in his limp and miserable wife's ear, leaning back against the cushions as he arranged her legs to either side of his thighs. "Lean forward against me, sweetheart, rest your head on my shoulder."

A sniffing Flora duly slumped against his chest, with her upper body bowed helplessly forward over the swell of her stomach. The king ran his hand up and down the length of her bare calf as it rested alongside his thigh; then reached around her shoulders to tug at the fastenings of her nightgown. She was too sore and miserable to question his actions, wordlessly allowing him unfasten the bindings of the silk tunic.

Alistair twisted his neck to kiss the top of her head, manoeuvring her arms one at a time from the voluminous sleeves. Flora complied without protest, letting her husband ease the garment away from her body until she was hunched before him clad only in her smalls.

She felt the mattress dip behind her as somebody sat amidst the blankets, crossing their legs elegantly beneath them and leaning forwards to croon in her ear.

"Breathe deeply, _carina. _Do so, and the battle is half-won."

Flora obediently took a gulp of air, the sound muffled as she bowed her forehead to Alistair's shoulder. The king raised his gaze over the top of her head, the green flecks within his hazel irises standing out starkly as he shot the elf an imploring glance.

Zevran flashed him a brilliant, white-toothed smile in response, then returned his attention to the girl slumped miserably before him. Her hair was half-caught in a plump braid; most of it fell in a deep crimson mass to her waist. He gathered it up, twisting deftly as he did so; pushing the bundle over her shoulder to rest on her breast.

With the fall of hair gone, the elf surveyed the queen's slender, naked back. The skin was as clear and unblemished as Orlesian porcelain, save for the mark left by the Archdemon's soul between her shoulder-blades. The milk-white scar had obliterated the _Peraquialus_ constellation of freckles; one silvery arc stretching up to touch the nape of her neck.

He reached out to slide his thumb down the line of her spine, allowing himself the swiftest of moments to appreciate the situation.

"Which part aches, _nena?" _

"Everything, everything," croaked Flora into Alistair's shoulder, her fingers curling limply into fists. "Everything hurts!"

"Then which part aches _most?"_

She flailed a hand somewhere near the base of her spine, not bothering to raise her head.

Zevran hummed quietly under his breath, uncorking a slender-necked vial with a thumb and tipping out a sweet smelling liquid into the palm of his hand. Letting the heat of his skin warm the oil, he lifted his dark irises to meet Alistair's anxious, slightly wary stare.

"You have made the right choice, _mi rey_," the elf said, rubbing his palms together and inhaling the sweet apricot scent that rose from between them. "I know most husbands would not countenance another man rubbing oil into the naked flesh of their wife- "

"Flo's in pain," interrupted Alistair, a raw edge to his reply. "And all I want is for her to feel better."

Zevran nodded, his gaze softening as he returned it to Flora's slumped shoulders.

"Alright, _mi sirenita," _he murmured, parting his slick, heated palms and flexing his fingers. "Let me loose on these aches and pains. I will melt them away like ice."

Beginning with the base of the queen's narrow back, Zevran began to smooth his palms in gentle sweeping motions over her sore muscles; gradually increasing the pressure with each pass until his thumbs were driving into muscle and sinew. It was not the erotic type of massage used as a precursor to other bedroom activities, but a purposeful, therapeutic manipulation designed to alleviate tension. With the same deft and smoothly controlled motions normally displayed on the battlefield, the elf smoothed out the knots in sinew and muscle, his breath warming her back as he leaned forwards.

"Is it making any difference, _carina?" _he asked softly, squeezing her shoulders rhythmically between finger and thumb.

"Mm," she croaked, unable to stop a little whimper of relief from escaping her throat. "It's helping."

Alistair, who had been half-expecting the elf to make a series of lewd comments, was impressed by his restraint. He tried to catch the elf's eye to mutter his thanks, but was distracted by a sudden heavy pressure against his chest. Flora had at last fallen asleep, her forehead resting on his shoulder and her fingers tangled in the hem of his shirt; soothed into oblivion by the expert movement of the elf's fingers.

Alistair inhaled tremulously –_ if Flora had fallen asleep, it meant that the pain had abated –_ a sudden and potent gratitude suffusing his features. He cupped the back of Flora's head as she snored against his shoulder, at last oblivious to the sore protests of her aching body.

"Thank you," he breathed, barely daring to raise his voice above a whisper. "Thank you, Zev."

Zevran raised his hands from her slowly, lifting a fingertip at a time to prolong the contact between them. Instead of speaking, he leaned forward and pressed his lips between Flora's naked shoulder-blades; directly over the silvered, arcing scar left by the Archdemon.

"I was glad to offer my assistance," he murmured at last, softly. "You know where I am, if such aid is required over the next few weeks."

Alistair nodded, watching the elf rise to his feet with feline grace. Instead of padding across to the door, Zevran wandered towards the window and angled his gaze down through the leaded panes. _Toth _hung suspended in the ink-blue sky overhead, a half-dozen celestial lanterns suspended on skeins of atmospheric effulgence. The constellation was reflected on the mirrored surface of Lake Calenhad; so precisely that it seemed as though part of the sky lay submerged within the still waters.

When Zevran looked back towards the bed, Alistair was just easing his snoring wife backwards amidst the cushions, tucking the blankets around her like a defensive wall. Before positioning the final blanket, the king bent forward to murmur something soft and unintelligible to the swell of Flora's stomach; pressing his lips briefly to the mound of flesh before moving the blanket into place.

"Are you looking forward to fatherhood, _mi rey_?" the elf asked, leaning against the window frame and keeping his tone deliberately light. "You are very young to become a _papa _of two."

Alistair could not stop pride from suffusing his features, his eyes softening into bruised apple-brown tenderness as he glanced towards his sleeping queen.

"It puts everything else into perspective," he said, quiet and earnest. "My whole world is tucked into those blankets. I never thought I'd even be lucky enough to get married, let alone have _children."_

The elf's grin became a fraction fixed, and he hastily glanced downwards to adjust the buckle of his wrist-brace; busying himself with metal and leather.

"You are a fortunate man," agreed Zevran, with a barely perceptible sigh. "A gorgeous wife who adores you, and two healthy babes ready to be born."

"Hopefully not _quite _ready, yet," replied Alistair, unable to stop a beam from creeping across his face. "If they could hold off until after we return to Denerim, that would be… well. That would be ideal."

He reached out in a reflexive, protective gesture; touching the top of Flora's head as she slumped against the cushions, snoring softly.

"Do you think there's anything to this threat from Nathaniel Howe?" Alistair asked after a moment, his tone carefully even to avoid waking his wife. "The note we got today was a little confusing. What does he mean, _he's made an error in judgement? _It makes no sense."

It was clear that this was a question that the king had been brooding over for hours, a crease folding itself into his smooth, olive brow. Zevran spared the glittering surface of the lake one final glance, then wandered back across the room; matching the king's light, deliberate timbre of voice.

"I have no answers that would satisfy you, Alistair. Ser Gilmore will write when he obtains any news; we must wait until then."

The corner of Alistair's mouth curled with disgust; for a moment, the handsome and open face was transformed into a cruel, doom-laden cipher.

"When I get my hands on him," he started and then half-laughed with no humour, shaking his head. "Maker's Breath. I won't even _speak _of what I'm going to have done to him. Even the name _Howe _makes my blood boil. How _dare _he make threats against my wife? Against my _children?"_

Alistair's voice rose in a sudden wave of outrage; Zevran raised slender tan fingers to hush him but it was too late. Flora yawned and rubbed a sleepy hand over her face, pushing herself up against the cushions. The blankets settled around the swell of her waist, thick ropes of oxblood hair falling over her breasts.

"Eeeh- " she mumbled, and Alistair immediately grimaced in contrition.

"Darling, I'm sorry. How is your back feeling?"

"Much better," Flora replied sleepily, her head swivelling to scan the room.

Once she laid eyes on Zevran, who was lingering near the hearth, she stretched out a hand. He responded to her silent entreaty like a fish reeled in on the line, advancing across the room and perching neatly on the edge of the mattress. Flora leaned forwards as best she was able considering the size of her stomach, put an arm around his neck and kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you," she said, earnestly. "My back feels so much better. I appreciate it _a_ _lot." _

The elf patted the queen gently on her bare shoulder; in an unusual and touching show of respect, he kept his eyes fixed firmly above her neckline.

"Anytime, _mi sirenita," _he murmured, the words emerging quiet and amused. "As always, I am delighted to help."

Flora smiled sleepily at him, leaning back against the cushions and fiddling with a strand of hair.

"We'll be in Herring in three days," she said, solemnly. "Are you both looking forward to it?"

Both men froze, considering the ethics of _lying _to a heavily-pregnant national hero. From what Alistair understood of Herring, it was a grim and utterly joyless blot upon the landscape from which the sea plucked victims at random, plagued by wreckers, smugglers and the occasional _giant. _The comments that Flora had made about the men and women of Herring beating each other in equal measure – and the remark that Flora's own adoptive father had made to Alistair about _not raising a hand to her without cause _did not lend the village any additional charm. Privately – although he would never admit it – Alistair thought that Flora was far better off well-away from the isolated little village of her childhood.

"I am looking forward to meeting lots of burly fishermen with big arms," Zevran offered instead, also attempting to be tactful.

Flora beamed, pleating the blanket absentmindedly between her fingers as she leaned back against the cushions.

"I'm looking forward to seeing the Waking Sea," she offered, brightly. "And visiting my dad. And to eating oysters – wait, the babies don't like shellfish. Eating broiled squid, then. And to seeing the Hag's Teeth in person!"

Alistair opened his mouth, closed it, and then decided to plough on regardless; to voice a question which had lingered on his mind for months, but which he had never quite dared to ask.

"And – your mother? Or," he amended hastily. "The woman who raised you. Pel's wife. Are you looking towards to seeing her?"

Zevran rolled his eyes at Alistair's clumsy wording, though his ears were pricked in anticipation of her answer.

Flora paused – just for a moment, but it stood out stark against her earlier enthusiasm.

"Yes," she said a moment later, her shoulders slumping as the excitement drained from her. "Yes, of – of course. Mama, too. Of _course _I'm looking forward to seeing her."

She dropped her eyes to the blanket, pleating it with fingers that were a fraction more unsteady than they had been moments prior.

Alistair felt cold dismay trickle down his spine as he and Zevran shared a quick, startled glance. Used to Flora spouting effusive praise on every aspect of Herring, it was unusual to hear her sound anything less than enthusiastic. With a sudden twist of his gut, the king realised that Flora had loudly sung the virtues of the man who had raised her – her adoptive father, Pel – but she barely mentioned the other person who had shared their little hut for a decade.

"Lo?" Alistair asked after a moment, trying unsuccessfully to inject casualness into his tone. "Don't – don't you get on with your – your Herring-mother?"

He borrowed the vernacular that she herself used to refer to Pel. Flora opened her mouth, then closed it again; not quite sure how to respond.

"I – _mama_ never got over the death of her son," the queen said eventually, in a small, matter-of-fact voice that she made no attempt to disguise. "He died the year before I – before I came to Herring. The sea took him, and I…. I think that's why my dad took me in. To try and make her feel better. It didn't work. I think it made her feel worse, actually."

Alistair gazed at his wife in mild alarm, not expecting to have uncovered such a startling revelation from an unremarkable query. He reached out and fingered a strand of her thick blood-red hair, curling it affectionately around his finger.

"You evaded my question like a slippery fish, my darling," he murmured, softly. "Don't you and she get on?"

Instead of responding, Flora squirmed free and clumsily reached for the crumpled pile of mustard wool at the bottom of the bed; shrugging it on.

"I need the privy," she announced, hair hanging loose to her waist. "Excuse me."

Alistair watched his wife disappear through the doorway, his eyebrows wedged firmly in his hairline.

"Maker's Breath," he commented, dismayed. "I'm such a fool. I knew she always spoke highly of her Herring-father while never mentioning her mother, but I didn't realise that it was because – because of _that. _I don't understand how anybody could _not_ get on with Flo. Maker, Zev - what if this, this _woman _is cruel to her? I can't have her getting upset, not when she's meant to be keeping calm until the birth."

The elf gave a shrug, his dark eyes quietly troubled.

"Even if this woman once treated our _carina_ less-than-well, I doubt she would dare do so before the _King of Ferelden. _Not now that _nena _is widely acknowledged as a _hero."_

"I'm not sure how much stock Herring folk place in titles," the king himself replied, remembering how Pel had merely scratched his beard in vague perplexion on finding out Alistair's royal status. "The more I find out about the place, the less I look forward to going there."

As Flora returned to the bedchamber - slightly embarrassed at using the privy as such a blatant diversionary tactic – she passed Zevran in the corridor. The elf slowed as she approached; Flora reached out to anchor his fingers, giving them a brief squeeze of gratitude before letting go.

"Thank you for helping my back," she said, hoping that he would not bring up the spectre of her Herring-mother. "It barely aches now."

"_Carina, _it was my pleasure to play a small part in easing your pain," he replied, tapping a slender olive finger affectionately on the end of her nose. "And rubbing oil into your naked body was just a _delightful_ bonus."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to start off with physical pain - Flo's back aching, which isn't anything sinister – just the weight of twins on a petite and narrow frame – and then finish off with this more emotional hurt. Flora's relationship with her Herring father was a key motif (lol at using literary terms for my crap story haha) throughout the original, and I just wanted to revisit that –the reason why Flora never mentioned her Herring mother was because the woman was abusive in all sorts of nasty ways. It was important to me not to romanticise Herring – I didn't want to turn it into some naff, twee little storybook fishing village – it's a grim and gritty 'blot on the landscape' full of people hardened by a hard life.


	118. Farewell To The Circle

Flora returned to the royal bedchamber with a vague sense of trepidation, wondering if she was about to be interrogated on her past familial relationships. The dynamic between her and her adoptive mother – whom she had believed to be her _birth _mother for a decade – was a complex and multi-faceted one, and she was reasonably sure that she did not have the intellectual capacity to explain it.

Instead - to her relief - she was greeted with a shadowed chamber lit only by the gently smouldering hearth. Alistair was already in bed, leaning back against the cushions with firelight caressing the firm contours of his muscled chest. He stretched out a hand towards Flora as soon as he set eyes on her, pushing himself further upright.

"Come to bed, sweet wife," he instructed, each word suffused with affection. "I want you right _here_."

Alistair made a gesture to a spot on his chest, just next to the crook of his shoulder. Flora beamed, letting the mustard dressing robe slide down her arms and fall in a puddle of lurid wool on the flagstones, padding herself and the burden of her belly across the room.

As she climbed into bed Alistair made a small sound of approval, immediately drawing her into his arms and pulling the blankets up around them. She let out a sigh of relief against the hard muscle of his chest, feeling him wrap a protective embrace around her.

"I don't want you to leave my arms until morning, darling," he murmured into her hair, feeling the squirming of a child between them. "I want to keep you, _just like this,_ with me."

"Mm," mumbled Flora, pressing her cheek against his collarbone. "That sounds nice. I need to warn you, though – I needed to get up for the privy _five times_ last night."

"It was actually _six, _my love."

"Oh no! Well, my bladder is feeling equally headstrong tonight."

The next day saw the reconvening of the _Council of the Bedchamber; _whereby the companions of the royal couple decided to make an unannounced early entrance. This gamble was safer in recent weeks, when the queen had less energy for morning ardour. When they entered on the morning of their departure from the Circle, they came across a scene of minor trauma. Items of clothing were strewn across the room – clearly in the midst of being packed away – and the various fortifying tonics were scattered over the table. A poker-faced Tranquil was placing the glass vials within a selection of velvet pouches, his slender fingers moving deftly.

Meanwhile, Flora was lying on her side on the bed, tears of misery streaming down her blotchy face and heartbroken sobs escaping her throat. She was clad in the mustard yellow dressing-robe, hair tangled in skeins down her back. Alistair was sitting beside her, packing away his shaving-apparatus as best he could with one hand while patting her back with the other. He was clearly trying not to laugh, the corner of his mouth quivering as though being tugged by a fishing line.

Teagan and Zevran stopped short in astonishment, their eyebrows rising simultaneously into their hairlines.

"What - "

"_Nena!"_

"Good morning," said Wynne, nudging her way past the two men and smiling her greeting at the king. "What's triggered this particular bout of maternal despair?"

Alistair swallowed a grin, stroking his sobbing wife's head while awkwardly fastening the buckle on a leather pouch.

"Unfortunately," he explained, canting his head towards the uncaring Tranquil. "Remus didn't put equal amounts of vials into each carrying pouch when he was packing them. Flo has been _devastated_ about it for the past half-candle."

"Some – _some!- _pouches had four vials," Flora whimpered, tears trickling down her nose. "And some… they only, they only… had _three! THREE!"_

Alistair leaned over and kissed his beleaguered wife on the forehead to hide his laughter, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.

"It's been a traumatic morning," he murmured, the leather pouch sliding from his knee onto the floor. "We had hysterics when the pillows accidentally fell off the bed earlier."

Flora dragged a palm over her face, humiliated by her own unstable emotions.

"I can't believe I'm being like this," she whispered, as a tear dripped from the end of her nose. "I'm going to get dismembered if I act so – so _dramatical_ in Herring."

"_Disowned_," corrected a brisk Wynne, producing a handkerchief and striding forwards. "Unless the residents of Herring are more bloodthirsty than I was aware of."

“I _meant _dismembered,” Flora intoned, darkly.

A short time later, bags had been packed, transported down five flights of curving stairs and loaded onto the small boats; ready to be ferried back to the mainland. Within the vaulted lobby on the ground, the royal party and their companions said their farewells to Kinloch Hold. Irving, Knight-Commander Greagoir and several senior enchanters had come down to see them off.

Alistair looked suitably regal in fur-trimmed leathers; a faint sheen of sweat decorating his forehead after carrying his wife down from the upper reaches of the tower. Flora had gathered herself together, clawing back some measure of composure in order to stand at her husband's side without dissolving into another wellspring of emotion. Clad in a deep Highever navy tunic with her hair neatly restrained with a matching ribbon, she stood quietly at Alistair's right elbow; a faint blotchiness of the cheeks the only clue as to her earlier histrionics.

Alistair thanked Irving politely for his hospitality, expressing gladness that the Circle had recovered from the terrible events of the autumn. After continuing in such a vein for several minutes, he cleared his throat; his words becoming a fraction more pointed.

"I'm looking forward to seeing how the scheme that Wynne came up with – senior mages mentoring apprentices – works out," he said quietly, his fingers reflexively brushing Flora's elbow. "I think it's an excellent idea. The queen should never have been allowed to slip through the cracks during her time here. Her magic saved Ferelden, after all."

_My spirits, _thought Flora to herself, wistfully. _Silver Knight and Golden Lady. I miss you every day._

Irving nodded, thumbs running in idle patterns over the insides of his draped sleeves. He opened his mouth to speak, but Alistair had not finished. The king continued, voicing an idea that he had conceived the previous evening.

"I also intend to strengthen ties between Denerim and Kinloch Hold. There needs to be greater coordination between the Circle, the Chantry and the crown. I'm going to create an independent subdivision of the king's council; whose job will be to monitor the wellbeing of the mages within Ferelden's Circles. They'll not only serve as an additional channel of communication, but also as an investigative body – they'll carry out several unannounced inspections a year. To check that the mages are following correct safety precautions to avoid a repeat of the abomination crisis, and to ensure that the Templars are upholding their correct duty of care towards their wards."

None present within the lobby were ignorant as to the mistreatment of mages in other Circles within Thedas – Kirkwall's Circle was notorious for the level of abuse. Wynne shot the king a glance of quiet approval from beneath her eyelashes, while Teagan felt a small swell of pride at the royal prerogative in his nephew's tone. Alistair sounded wholly different from when he had arrived at Redcliffe with Flora ten months earlier; the hesitant unassuming youth transformed into a assured and authoritative leader.

Alistair finished speaking with a nod, the steely determination in his voice softening a fraction as he glanced once more down at Flora. She had been very quiet throughout his declaration; the Hero of Ferelden taking a metaphorical step back to allow the King of Ferelden to assume a natural precedence.

"My – my wife has agreed to be part of the committee," he said softly, stopping himself just in time from calling her _my_ _sweet wife, _as was his custom. "Naturally, she won't be assuming her role for a while- " the king gestured wryly towards Flora's stomach," – but she has a keen interest in the wellbeing of the Circle, for obvious reasons."

Flora gave a little, solemn-faced nod. They had talked about the creation of such a committee in bed that morning; before the cushions had tumbled to the flagstones and triggered a torrent of tears.

"The senior enchanters need to be held accountable for keeping the younger apprentices safe," she offered, in her soft, hoarse northerner's tone. "Likewise, the Templars are accountable for the wellbeing and protection of the Circle. The Knight-Commander supervises his soldiers very well at the moment, but a future commander might not be so diligent. It's important to set up this safeguarding now so that it becomes a natural part of the system in time."

Careless of their surroundings and audience, a proud Alistair reached out for his queen's hand; clasping their fingers together and giving them a squeeze. Nobody would have guessed that only a half-candle earlier, Flora had been sobbing maniacally over the 'wrong' numbers of vials placed within their velvet pouches.

As they prepared to leave the Circle, travelling cloaks and packs readied, Irving stepped forward to bid Wynne an individual goodbye, promising his old friend that he would endeavour to respond in timely fashion to her letters. Once this necessary farewell was made, Ferelden's First Enchanter shuffled his way across to Flora. The queen was waiting patiently beside the door, one hand resting on her squirming stomach.

"This is the third time you've departed from Kinloch Hold," he said, quietly. "And I don't think you'll return for quite some time. I hope your stay here was not _all _bad, your majesty."

Flora's Herring bluntness was overruled by her natural instinct to be kind; she could see the anxiety flickering in the old man's eyes.

"It… it wasn't all bad," she offered, after thinking for a moment. "It was nice to have a proper meal every day. And the dampness of the dormitories reminded me of Herring."

The First Enchanter smiled ruefully, aware that the queen had meant this as a compliment.

"Farewell then, 'Flora of Herring'," he murmured, using the name that she had borne on her arrival at the Circle. "And best of luck to you on this next phase of your life's journey."

The weather was soft and balmy, although there was a biting edge to the breeze that could be interpreted either as a portent to autumn or as reflective of their northern location. The sky was a streaky, washed-out blue like a painter's over-diluted palette; the first coppery signs of summer's decline were starting to speckle the leaves of the trees.

They took the small ferry across the lake, leaving the Circle Tower in their wake. When glimpsed over the shoulder, the basalt structure resembled a tall, chiding finger oddly reminiscent of the Grand Chantry in Denerim. At the dock, they were greeted by the rest of their party- overexcited Mabari, the scouts and the Royal Guardsmen, accompanied by the horses and wagons. Conspicuously absent was Ser Gilmore, who had travelled onwards to West Hill to investigate the circumstances of Nathaniel Howe's letter.

Despite the fact that they had been at the Circle Tower for only a week, the prospect of getting back on a horse seemed suddenly indescribably more daunting for Flora. Alistair's bay mare towered upwards like a behemoth above her; with power radiating from each well-hewn muscle, and hooves the size of round cheese-platters.

While Alistair was overseeing the loading of the bags onto the carts – ensuring that the vials containing his wife's fortifying tonics were placed near the top – Flora tried to swallow her nerves.

_Moira the Rebel Queen rode horses until the day she gave birth to Maric, _she thought determinedly to herself, recalling the fact from one of the children's books that she had read with Wynne. _She had armour custom-made to fit over her stomach. If she can do it, I can do it. _

Just then, Flora felt a soft, velvety nuzzle into the back of her head. The mare had nudged its nose against her ear, hot air from its nostrils riffling the loose strands of hair. She tilted her head to peer up at it, her pale, apprehensive stare meeting the dark, liquidous reassurance of the mare's limpid eyes.

_I carried you safely atop a crumbling city wall with an Archdemon's breath singeing the stone behind us, _the horse's gaze seemed to say. _I'll not let harm come to you now. _

She reached up and scratched her bitten fingernails gently along the mare's long, velvet nose; tracing the white blaze that broke the rich coffee coat. The mare gave a low whicker, brushing the dusty ground lightly with a hoof.

"If you want, darling, you can ride in the cart. I know it's not ideal to be in the saddle when you're _great with child."_

Alistair's voice came from somewhere above and behind Flora. The king had come to stand at her back, one arm curling protectively around her waist.

_When the Templars carried me away from Herring, they took me in a cart. I don't want to return the same way._

"In the _cart?" _she replied, with mock indignation. "Like a clothes-trunk or a sack of turnips? The Queen of Ferelden is not _carted like baggage!" _

Alistair let out a low laugh, kissing the top of Flora's head while simultaneously scratching the mare affectionately behind her ear.

"Of course not, my love. Anyway, this beauty won't let us down, she's the _sturdiest_ ride in Ferelden."

"What a dubious compliment!" chimed in an eavesdropping Zevran, with a little malicious cackle. _"'The sturdiest ride.'"_

Alistair rolled his eyes, reaching up with an experienced hand to adjust the mare's bridle.

"This mare is the finest horse I've ever ridden," he murmured. "I think we should try and breed her in the spring. Teagan has got some fine stallions."

"Aye," added the bann, whose ears had pricked at the mention. "I've got a pair of prime purebred Forders who are ready to stud."

"Only if she _wants _it," insisted the horrified Flora, patting the mare's nose protectively. "You can't just… _assault _her."

"Don't worry, petal," interjected Teagan, hiding a smile. "There's no covering a mare that doesn't want to be covered. She'd kick the poor stallion's manhood in."

"Covered? Covered with what?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Covered is the term used for when a stallion is deliberately bred with a mare… I don't know much about horse breeding etc lol but my dad's friend owns a training yard and they do all that kind of thing up there!
> 
> Anyway, it's goodbye to the Circle Tower! Feels quite bittersweet as that's where Flo's story began MANY LIGHT YEARS AGO haha (although I think light years is actually distance?). And now…. It's off to the hideous little blot on the landscape that is HERRING! Off to Flora-country, lol. Literally no one is looking forward to it apart from her, hehehe


	119. The Road To The Storm Coast

The Royal company set out on the northern road shortly afterwards in a small procession of horses and carts. There was no grand Tevinter-built highway that led to Ferelden's dampest coast, only a winding trail that was little more than an earthen track just wide enough for a single wagon.

The landscape was also markedly different from the forested valleys and undulating farmland they had passed through on their journey west. A vast moorland bordered the northern coast, high and exposed; unbroken save for the occasional moss-covered crag or granite outcrop. The grass was bent sideways by a perpetual wind blowing south from the Waking Sea, and there was no growth of vegetation taller than waist-height. There were also precious few signs of civilisation on this exposed stretch of scrubland, the moss and heather was punctuated on occasion by the remnants of a crumbling stone wall. The distant northern horizon was shrouded in a faint miasma of grey cloud.

It took nearly half of the day for the company to ascend onto the high, rocky moor; their progress hindered by a broken cart wheel several hours into the journey. By the time that repairs had been carried out, it was past midday and a light drizzle had begun to fall. They set out once more on the gently sloping track, the landscape growing increasingly bleak and desolate around them.

"I believe this is a portent – a preview – of the weather for the next _fortnight _of our journey," Zevran announced out loud, the self-pity evident in his tone as he wiped a strand of damp hair from his eyes. _"Mi sirenita _has long warned us of the climatic conditions of the northern coast."

"I wasn't_ warning _you about them," Flora protested immediately, twisting in the saddle as much as Alistair's firm grip would allow. "I was saying how nice and refreshing they were!"

"Wet, windy, cold," Zevran retorted, counting off each climatic sin on his fingers. "Perpetually soggy, even in summer. Do you ever get _warm _days this far north?"

"No," said Flora, a wistful note in her words. "It's always damp. I once had a wool jumper which had so much mildew on it that everyone thought it was _green_, rather than white. And they made fun of me for owning fancy dyed clothes. Except, it wasn't dyed. It was MOULD!"

Alistair's eyes bulged; Herring lowering itself even further in his estimation. The elf, who took meticulous care of his own oiled leathers, also looked momentarily horrified.

"Ah, if you could only experience an Antivan summer, _carina," _he said, equally misty with reminiscence. "I remember an August that was so hot, the very _air _scorched one's throat as one inhaled."

"I'd love to spend an afternoon wandering around the market in Antiva City," chimed in Wynne, wistfully. "I've read that all the spices in Thedas can be found within its labyrinthine stalls. Is that true, Zevran?"

"There are hundreds of varieties for sale, _sí," _confirmed Zevran, idly running his finger along the leather strap of the reins. "I do not know whether _all _the spices in Thedas can be found there, but I'd wager that the majority of them could be."

"Salt is the only spice a true Fereldan citizen needs," offered Alistair, keeping one eye on the track ahead to watch for potholes. "Anything else just detracts from the simple, hearty flavour of the meat!"

The elf let out a deep sigh, drawing up his hood against the incessant pattering of drizzle.

"My dear boy, salt is not a _spice. _It is a_ mineral. _And the less said about the bland and tasteless fare that passes for Fereldan 'cuisine', the better!"

They stopped for lunch near the only cover provided by the moors – an abrupt protrusion of bluff that rose like a tumour from the tangled grass. The drizzle had eased off, but the promise of future precipitation lingered in the heavy air. With every mile they covered, the blue in the sky faded into a miasmic and indescribable non-colour; a greyish white that seemed one unbroken mass of cloud.

The temperature also dropped in slow increments as they sat beneath the rough stone; causing members of the company to button up tunics and pull travel cloaks tighter. All did this save for their two native northerners – Flora, and a Highever scout. Unfortunately, the former soon found herself also being bundled up in a thick blanket; Alistair was determined that neither his wife nor his unborn children should catch chill.

"I'm _sweating_," his queen complained, wriggling an arm free to retrieve a boiled potato. "I feel like a griddled haddock."

"Good," retorted Alistair, as he buttered a slice of bread. "The hotter you are, the _healthier_ you are!"

Flora, with her fifteen years of experience as a healer, shot him a dubious look. Before she could protest, Teagan had unfolded the map across a convenient flat stone, pointing to a spot an inch south-east of West Hill.

"We've made good time," he said, brushing a grasshopper from the faded parchment. "I'd estimate that we're about _here."_

Alistair's face darkened as he focused on the name _West Hill, _from which Nathaniel Howe's letter had originated.

"Flo, I want you to practice with Zevran again after lunch," he said, suddenly. "It'll be too dark after we make camp, the nights are drawing in quick now that we're in August."

The elf bowed his head in ready acquiescence, blowing Flora a kiss through the air.

For the rest of the meal, Alistair kept shooting malevolent glances in the direction of West Hill, which was little more than a faint elevated smudge on the horizon. Once the others had finished their food, they occupied themselves with packs, possessions, or – in Wynne's case – a new ream of parchment. Teagan once more bent over the map with Alistair; the two men conferring on how they could further shorten their route in order to arrive at Denerim in good time for the birth.

Zevran, casting a stern eye up at the massing cloud overhead, rose elegantly to his feet and crooked an imperious finger towards his unlikely student.

"Come on, _nena. _Do you need a hand to ascend?"

"_No!" _retorted Flora witheringly from where she was sitting cross-legged on the grass. "I can _get up _on my own."

The queen then realised that this was easier said than done, and it had been a week since she had sat on anything other than chairs, beds or benches. Still, determined to prove her capability, she rolled over onto her hands and knees and heaved herself upwards like a camel; in possibly the least elegant manoeuvre ever witnessed in Thedas.

Zevran managed not to make a comment, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Alright, _mi sirenita," _he murmured, gesturing her to a patch of tufty grass that received marginally more sunlight than the base of the rocky outcrop. "Let us begin. _No_, we are not starting with these today."

This was in response to Flora reaching out for the descaling blade and fish-hook, both of which hung at the elf's belt. She shot him a quizzical look and the elf smiled.

"We are going to begin by reminding ourselves of the best places to _strike_," he said quietly, circling her at a measured, feline pace. "Remember when you were a healer, and could see the nooks and crannies of the inner body with your mind's eye?"

Flora nodded wistfully, recalling how she had let her gaze blur; slipping beneath the skin of her patient and refocusing within flesh and sinew.

"Tell me what you remember, _carina. _Where are the most vital – and _vulnerable – _places in the body? The ones that lack the defence of bone or muscle? Show me, _cara."_

The queen grimaced, not used to thinking in such terms. Still, after a moment, Flora reached up to touch her throat, then down to her inner thigh. She was just gesturing to her armpit, when her face contorted and took on a petulant cast.

"I don't _like_ this!"

"I know, I know," crooned the elf as he continued to circle, reaching out to pat her gently on the cheek with slender, olive fingers. "Humour me a little longer, _mija_. Where else?"

With her lips still sulkily curled, Flora pointed to the back of her neck. Zevran nodded, returning to face her with a smile of approval.

"Of course, the _root _of the brain. Instant death, when severed. Since you do not have much energy, _amor, _you must aim to end any engagement within seconds."

"I don't LIKE- !"

"_Sí, sí," _he soothed, reaching down to unbuckle the fish-hook from his belt. "It is not very nice; and yet the prospect of Nathaniel Howe lurking somewhere out there is even _less nice, eh?"_

The elf gestured for her to aim at the vulnerable spots she had identified. The former Crow was agile enough to avoid the piercing end of the hook as it cut through the air, darting out of reach at the last minute. Flora was slow and graceless, but at least – he reasoned – she was less clumsy with these familiar 'weapons' than she was with their more traditional counterparts.

"But," piped up the breathless queen a short while later, grasping the fish hook expertly by the wooden handle. _"But, _in that note from him, he didn't sound as though he wanted me dead. He said he'd made a mistake- "

" – and _now_ your life was in danger," finished Zevran, patiently. "See: the same outcome."

"_Flora!" _

There was a raw edge to Alistair's plea as it rang out across the damp scrubland. Flora blinked; she was unused to her husband taking such a stern tone with her.

"Please, my love," the king continued, making an effort to soften the harsh timbre of his voice as he saw her confusion. "I know that you see the best in people – it's one of your most endearing qualities, sweetheart – but I don't want your naivety to get you hurt… or _worse_. Nathaniel Howe is evil, right down to the bone. Their family emblem ought to be a snake, not a bear."

Flora looked down at her feet in chagrin. She was well-aware that she could be too quick to trust at times – a product of her sheltered, isolated upbringing and her inherently kind nature – but to have it so explicitly stated as a fault was a little embarrassing.

Alistair seemed to realise that his reproach had been delivered abruptly and without warning. He strode across the tangled heather towards his new bride – whose lower lip now jutted obstinately outwards even further than was customary.

"My sweet wife," he beseeched Flora, taking her into his arms with proprietary tenderness. "Please, listen to what I'm saying. I can't risk anything happening to you, my love: my whole sanity rests on your safety."

Flora was still somewhat perturbed, but understood that her husband's words came from a place of concern. She pressed a grumpy kiss to Alistair's bearded cheek as he nuzzled his face into her shoulder, feeling his grip tighten around her.

They continued to follow the scrubland trail north, as the clouded sky overhead grew darker and the threat of rain more manifest. The coast was still a day's ride away – then it would be another day's ride eastwards towards Herring – and yet the Waking Sea seemed oddly present; casting out a long, seaweed-draped arm to darken the sky and fling salt into the wind.

Flora, still brooding quietly over Alistair's implication that she was too hasty to trust, distracted herself with these portents of home. Like a compass, her body had always subtly aligned itself to the north; now, as their surroundings began to take on the harsher geography of the Storm Coast, the queen found herself tensing like a Mabari scenting prey. She found that she could not sit still on the saddle, Alistair had to tighten his grip around her waist as she fidgeted and squirmed. He could feel her heart drumming a rapid staccato within her ribcage, her pulse throbbing with increased rapidity.

"Darling," he said in her ear as the company rounded a rocky outcrop, beginning to make their way across a stretch of flat moor dotted with butter-yellow gorse. "My love, _deep breaths. _You know you mustn't get overexcited."

Flora let out a little grunt in response, her eyes fixated on the flat grey line of the northern horizon. She had received her last glimpse of the Waking Sea from between the bars of a Templar's prison- wagon; she had been bound into a mage-cage and it had toppled sideways as they headed down the southern track. She had only a brief sighting of the fretful waves before the cage had rolled over and she had spent the next six hours staring at a Templar's boots.

Teagan decided that it would probably _not_ be wise for them to camp within sight of West Hill, in case Alistair decided to engage on a one-man mission to track down Nathaniel Howe. Instead, they stopped for the evening beneath a bluff of flat, wide rocks piled atop one another like coins. The structure appeared precarious, yet the unbroken green spread of moss coating each tabular boulder suggested that there had been no movement for generations.

"Like a giant's dinner plates piled up for washing," Alistair commented, placing his wife on a mound of soft moss and heading towards the cart to retrieve the tent.

Flora almost replied that the sea-giants did not wander this far from the coast, then remembered that she was still in a sulk. She made a brief attempt to pull off her boots – her strapped knee was chafing at the confines of the leather - but was impeded by the ungainly mound of her stomach.

While the others set up a ring of tents around a spot marked for a fire, the queen busied herself with a needle and thread in the last of the light; deftly mending tears in canvas and adding patches to worn-out travel packs. She was no longer able to help with the physical construction of camp, but her skill with a needle – honed by years of mending nets – was equally valued.

The horses were set loose to graze and drink from the nearby spring; they were highly-trained Royal steeds that would not wander far. The Mabari kept an eye on them, sprawled on the tufty grass and snapping their jaws idly at hovering midges.

Once the tents and campfire had been constructed, one of the scouts wandered off across the heather-strewn scrubland with bow and arrow in hand. The lay of the land was so flat and unbroken by obstacle that those at the camp could spy his silhouette even a mile away; a slight figure creeping amidst the tangled mosses and ferns in hunt of prey.

The company were also able to see a horseman approaching from a good distance. The twilight had just deepened enough to de-saturate colour, obscuring the livery that the rider sported. He carried a torch aloft in one hand, a pinprick of bright orange against the growing mass of shadow.

Teagan glanced at Alistair, who gave a small half-nod; identical thoughts writ across his face.

"Lo," the king said, with a careful casualness to his tone. "Can you sit yourself in our tent for a moment, my darling? Just until we find out who this rider is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: OK, so the terrain they are riding through was inspired by Bodmin Moor, this gorgeous, bleak and rugged stretch of granite moor in Cornwall; if you google image it, that's literally the backdrop! It's one of these locations that has so much rich lore behind it – there's a pond there which is supposed to be the one where Excalibur was hidden in Arthurian tradition; it's supposed to be roamed by a mythological Beast of Bodmin; one of Britain's most notorious Victorian prisons – Bodmin Gaol – is there. Daphne du Maurier's Jamaica Inn novel, about smugglers, is set on Bodmin… it's one of the most atmospheric and creepy geographical expanses in the UK. Anyway, it's how I envision the northern part of Ferelden to look, before they reach the coastline. The Storm Coast in game has this stunning, dramatic granite-looking rock formations that I think would be quite a natural transition – Land's End coastline in Cornwall looks quite similar. GEOGRAPHY HEADCANON!
> 
> Flora is literally the only person looking forward to visiting the northern coast, hahaha. Everyone else is already in an awrghhh, fuck this place, fuck this plaaaaace mood, lol.


	120. Dwarves With Ill Intent

Flora, who had been valiantly using the last of the light to repair a frayed saddle-strap, uttered a disgruntled mumble. Usually she would have offered some sort of protest, but she was too tangled up with emotion to think rationally. Instead, she crawled within the tent and sat alongside their baggage and bedrolls, feeling equally burdensome.

A shadow shifted before the entrance and Flora looked up to see Zevran elegantly reclining in the canvas doorway; somehow both relaxed and utterly alert. She glimpsed a sheen of silver at his belt, where a long, wicked-edged blade was tucked surreptitiously within reach.

The elf caught the direction of her stare and shot her a wry half-smile, keeping one eye on the torchlight of the approaching rider.

"If you ever fancy an upgrade from the descaling blade and fishhook, _nena," _he murmured, softly. "You need only say the word."

Flora shook her head glumly, fiddling with the loose end of the leather strap around her knee. The dull thud of the horse's hoofbeats sounded ever-louder against the earthen trail; the moorland was so still and silent that the echo resonated for a substantial distance. Outside the tent, she could hear the others quietly readying themselves; taking up a position so familiar to Flora that she could picture it vividly within her own head.

_Wynne will be near the back, leaning on her staff as though it's a walking-stick. Bann Teagan will have a hand on the hilt of his blade, he's too tactful to have it drawn. _

_Alistair won't be tactful, he'll have his sword in hand. _

A man's voice rang in a shouted greeting through the darkness; a voice that Flora recognised. Teagan gave a responding hail, and there was the sound of someone – Alistair – sheathing their sword.

"That's Ser Gilmore," Flora said to Zevran, recognising the northern tones. "You can let me out of the tent now, prison guard!"

Zevran obligingly withdrew, rising elegantly to his feet in the damp grass. Flora followed with far less grace, padding around the smouldering remains of the campfire to greet the Cousland retainer as he drew his horse to a halt.

"Your majesty," the knight said, bowing atop the saddle towards Alistair before hastily dismounting. "And my lady Cousland."

One of the scouts came forward to take the horse, leading the mare over to the spring and lifting the saddle from its back. Alistair clearly wanted to begin interrogating Gilmore immediately, but just about managed to restrain himself, gesturing to the remnants of dinner in still-warm copper pans.

"Do you need something to eat after your journey?" he asked, biting back his demand for news on Howe. "There's still some beans left, and a bit of sausage."

Ser Gilmore shook his head, dark bruises of tiredness shadowing the underneath of his eyes. The livid scar across his cheek – a legacy of the attack on Highever – seemed to stand out more puckered and raw against his weary features.

"I ate at the inn in West Hill before leaving," he explained, shifting from one saddle-sore foot to another. "Though I thank you for your consideration, King Alistair."

Alistair realised after a moment that the knight was waiting for him and Flora to sit down. Hastily, he lowered himself to the grass and reached up an arm towards Flora, steadying her awkward descent onto a hastily retrieved blanket.

Once the royal couple were reposed, Ser Gilmore took a seat on the same flat boulder that Teagan had spread the map over earlier, stifling a faint sigh of relief.

"I met with Bann Franderal as soon as I arrived within the town," the Cousland retainer explained, peeling his riding gloves off a finger at a time. "He offered me lodgings within his fortress, but I declined – I wanted to stay at the inn where Howe had written the note, ask a few questions and see if I could find anything out."

"In Herring, they say that the castle at West Hill is meant to be _haunted," _offered Flora, and was ignored by everyone.

Alistair's face had taken on a stern, rigid cast that made him appear years older. He leaned forward slightly, eyes fixed unblinkingly on Ser Gilmore; listening to every word with the keenness of a Mabari scenting the wind.

"And?" he demanded, trying to keep the impatience from his voice.

"Franderal had no idea that Howe had been staying within the town – seems like he'd kept a low profile. I asked a few questions at the inn, and the tavern-keeper was equally useless."

The king's shoulders slumped, predicting that Gilmore would now announce a dead end in enquiries.

"Fortunately," the knight continued, brightly. "The tavern-keeper's _wife _is far nosier with regard to their guests. When I described Howe – or at least, as best as I could remember, it's been years since he visited Highever – she recognised him immediately."

"Does he look like his father?" Flora interrupted, unable to repress a little shiver as she recalled the sallow, weak-chinned and narrow features of the elder Howe.

Gilmore paused and narrowed his eyes as he thought about the question, uncorking a flagon of ale handed to him by Teagan.

"In some ways," he said at last, softly. "His face hangs on bones that are the same shape. But his hair is darker, and his jaw stronger. And he's got the eyes of his mother, Eliane Bryland."

"Arl Leonas' sister," replied Flora, recalling the familial connection. "I remember him mentioning it."

"Aye. So he's been residing at the inn since mid-Solace, but kept mostly to himself. No visitors – but he did write a handful of letters."

"Nobody came to visit him? You're sure?" asked Alistair, one hand placed firm and protective on Flora's strapped knee.

Gilmore was about to shake his head, and then caught himself at the last moment, turning the negative into a nod.

"There was a dwarf who visited just over a week ago. According to the tavern-keeper's wife, they didn't talk long. She said that the dwarf didn't seem happy."

"The letter to the Circle was dated just over a week ago," murmured Teagan. The bann had focused on the note's more informative details – as opposed to Alistair's fixation on its inflammatory contents.

"A _dwarf?"_ repeated Alistair, his brow furrowed. "Why would Howe meet with a dwarf?"

"A mercenary? Or Carta involvement?"

Zevran's voice wound soft and sylph-like from the shadows, the elf leaning against the nearby tabular formation of boulders.

"The latter would make more sense," Wynne murmured, clicking her fingers at the hearth to revive the dying flame. "Did you not drive them topside during your time in Orzammar?"

Alistair gave an involuntary grimace, his fingers tightening on Flora's sore knee. She yelped, and he immediately shot her an apologetic glance.

"We did destroy their headquarters," he said, with slow recollection. "And Sten killed their leader, Jarvia. Maker's Breath, you think they've come up to the surface?"

"It is a possibility," replied Zevran, quietly. "They will be looking to claim territory elsewhere. Extend their reach."

"_Not _in Ferelden," Alistair retorted, a flush of anger rising to his cheeks. "I'll write to Leliana tonight, get her to investigate. And if it's _true, _they'll be driven out of my country by year's end. Let the Orlesians deal with them, or the Marchers. Preferably the former."

"A dwarven guild would make more sense than topside assassins," Teagan said, warming to the theory. "I can't see anyone who lives above ground wanting to hurt the _Hero of Ferelden. _She's just saved the land from a Blight, of all things!"

"Which begs the question, why haven't they struck yet? Sorry, _nena," _Zevran interjected, as both king and queen flinched. "Assassins can be patient, but not for _this _long."

"Perhaps they don't wish to harm a woman big-bellied with babe," Wynne suggested, with dogged optimism. "Maybe it's put them off."

"Well," countered Zevran, with a reluctant twitch of his jaw muscle that tugged at the corner of his mouth. "If so, they may be waiting until _mi florita _is no longer with child, which is now only weeks away."

Alistair let out a soft and utterly humourless snort, one protective palm lingering on Flora's thigh.

"They could try," he promised, each word laced with uncharacteristic malice. "I'll tear _anyone_ who lays a hand on the mother of my children limb from limb, I swear to the Maker."

Flora shot him an anxious glance, unused to such vitriol uttered from the lips of her generally kind-hearted husband. Alistair made himself smile back at her, forcing his voice into a more soothing timbre.

"I don't want you to worry for a single moment, my love," he said, rubbing his thumb in a slow circle against her thigh. "Not even for a heart-beat. Did the tavern-keeper's wife notice anything else about Howe?"

Ser Gilmore re-corked the bottle, pushing the stopper in place with a calloused thumb.

"She said that his demeanour was twitchy, nervous. That it was what first drew her attention – she suspected him of being a thief. When he left, he paid in silver and copper coins, and didn't clear his debt at the bar."

"So he's running short on funds," Teagan replied, thoughtfully. "Which makes sense, seeing that the Howe estates in Amaranthine have been granted to your brother, Flora."

"Good," retorted Alistair, harshly. "With any luck, if he _was _in co-horts with the Carta, he can't grant them their fees and they'll take his manhood – if he _has _one – in lieu of payment."

"It makes you wonder how much Nathaniel Howe truly understood of the situation before journeying here," Wynne said, her brow creased in thought. "Perhaps he has only just become enlightened as to the _true _circumstances surrounding his father's death."

There was a silence around the campfire, broken only by the gentle hiss and spit of ejected sparks. The orange flame was the sole source of manmade light for miles; a raw, burning pinprick against the shadowed moorland. Those gathered about it glanced at each other, their faces fixed between anger and deep thought, mulling over Wynne's suggestion.

"That could account for Howe's change in mind," Teagan said, slowly. "The north is proud of their homegrown Hero, and the Bann of West Hill supported the Wardens' cause against Loghain at the Landsmeet. If Howe made enquiries within the town, he'd get very favourable reports on the queen – and your abduction by Rendon Howe is now common knowledge, petal."

Flora pulled a face, not wanting to resurrect old memories. She found it hard to believe that those events had transpired only five months prior. Her time with Howe was shrouded in a delicate veil of obscuration; courtesy of her spirits.

Alistair shot her a sideways glance, and decided abruptly that enough was enough for one night.

"I don't care if he's had a change of heart, or _seen the light," _he announced into the darkness. "He's still going to find himself on the sharp end of my blade the moment I set eyes on him. Come on, darling, bedtime."

"Alistair! _Do _restrain yourself in public," the elf retorted, quick as a whip. "I'll be in later, _amor."_

The light-hearted comment helped to dissipate the tension, and the company parted for their separate tents shortly afterwards. The Mabari, Zevran, Teagan and the scouts had resumed their system of keeping watch. The king no longer participated in the rota; choosing instead to keep his own private and personal watch over his wife.

The only difference of note between the Royal tent and those belonging to others in the company was the status of its occupants. It was a fraction bigger, but after six weeks on the road; the canvas was equally damp-stained and patched. Fortunately, Alistair had used the royal purse to purchase new bedding for everybody from the Circle; replacing mildewed bedrolls, fraying blankets and flattened cushions.

There was so much new bedding within the Royal tent – including, somewhat incongruously, _silk sheets _– that there was less room to manoeuvre. Getting undressed and changed within a tent was not straightforward at the best of times; even less so when the occupants consisted of one six foot and three inch tall man, and his heavily pregnant little wife.

Flora ran out of energy half-way through clambering into her nightgown, sprawling back on the cushions with the linen shirt over her head, one arm wedged helplessly up like a flag; entirely naked from the waist down with her stomach jutting out into the shadow.

"Help, help," she complained into the material, the plea emerging muffled. "I'm stuck."

"One moment, my love!"

Alistair had finally taken his sleep-trousers outside to change into, after checking that Wynne had retired to her own tent. Once he had finished changing – accompanied by an admiring whistle from Zevran - he ducked back through the canvas entrance flap and immediately stifled a chuckle.

"Don't laugh at me!" yowled a hormonal Flora. "It's not funny! I'm tangled up like a lobster in a fishing net."

"I'm not laughing," lied Alistair, grateful that the material was obscuring her face.

Flora, much to her shame, passed a deeply uncomfortable night on the bedroll. Now too unwieldy to sprawl on Alistair's chest, she had found the lumpen mattress a far less comfortable place to rest. The twins, to their credit, had not shifted too vigorously – they only just had enough room to squirm, and now spent much of their time sleeping in preparation for the birth. Yet the rest of Flora's body seemed to conspire against her. Her back ached, her feet were swollen and sore; her insides wracked by simultaneous indigestion and heartburn.

At one point in the deepest part of the night Flora woke up, still tucked tightly into the wedge of Alistair's arm. She could feel a sweat rising on her forehead, stray hairs plastered to the skin. For one terrifying moment she thought that she might have a _fever – _then realised, in relief, that it was a standard hot flush.

Every part of her body throbbed as the new queen sat up, slow as a woman several decades older. As she began to heave herself down the bedroll towards the tent entrance, Flora felt a sharp tug from somewhere behind her ear. She reached up, feeling a loose skein of hair pulled strangely taut; moments later, Alistair woke with a particularly loud snort, blinking blearily into the darkness.

"You've tied a line on me," Flora whispered as her husband reached out a hand for her, revealing that he had knotted one end of a long, dark red skein around his thumb.

"Well, you _are _my catch of a lifetime," he replied, unravelling the strand of hair. "Sorry, sweetheart, but you have a habit of _nocturnal wandering._ You can wander all you like, but I'm coming with you."

Flora settled back down and rested her cheek in her palm, feeling a sleepy nudge against her hip.

"Do you think I'm going to get into trouble out on the moorland?" she whispered, fixing her pale, rain-grey eyes on her husband's face. "That I might trust a rabbit too hastily and fall down its hole? Or get kidnapped by shrews after offering them help?"

Alistair grimaced, sensing the mild reproach in her tone. Flora had clearly not forgotten his sharp words from earlier, when he had berated her for suggesting that Howe no longer had revenge on his mind. The king reached out, touching the fine bone of her cheek with a gentle thumb.

"My love, I was wrong," he murmured back, softly. "I didn't mean to make your kindness and sweet heart sound like flaws. They've kept me _sane,_ all these months. When you first met me, I know I came off as a half-wit joker, but… I had this frustration, and- and _bitterness _inside me. I was angry with Eamon for sending me away, and I was resentful of a heritage I didn't want. But then I saw how nice you were, and how you thought the best of everyone, despite the way that people treated you. It made me realise that it wasn't a weakness to be kind."

Flora curled the corner of her mouth towards him and he smiled back, their heads inches apart on the pillow they shared.

"Now I'm king, I have to be a strong leader," Alistair continued, quiet and earnest. "I have to be stern, and resolute… and sometimes, I'll have to make hard decisions. But I know that I won't ever become cruel, or tyrannical, because of what I've learnt from you."

As he spoke she mirrored his gesture, tracing the angles of the handsome, deceptively arrogant face with the back of her fingertip.

"So, darling," Alistair finished, and there was a firmness to his words countered by the tenderness in his eyes. "You can be as trusting and kind-hearted as you like – offer help to strangers, believe whatever you're told, always think the best of people - because it's my job to keep you safe. And if your_ niceness_ puts you at risk… it means that I'm not doing a good enough job, so I need to do better."

Flora smiled at him wistfully, brushing back the rumpled hair at the front of Alistair's forehead; a tuft that always seemed to spring up no matter how he much slicked it down with water.

"You’ve always protected me," she whispered, stifling a yawn. "I'm still going to keep learning how to defend myself with Zevran, though. I think I'm getting better!"

"You definitely are," the loyal Alistair replied, indulgently. "Once you stop trying to block things with your _face, _my love, you'll be a formidable opponent!"

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Flora is definitely someone who would spend hours looking to see if the word gullible was in the dictionary or not – and it would literally take her hours, since there's no way she's spelling that, hahaha. On that note, I thought that it was quite poignant when she was sitting in the tent, while her companions readied themselves outside. In the past, she would have been hovering in the rear of the party with her hands up, preparing to shield her friends; now, as she gloomily observes, she's as much of a burden as the baggage and bedrolls around her.
> 
> Anyway, this chapter contains some hints as to where I'm taking the arc with Nathaniel Howe, since I didn't want his part to just be a repeat of his younger brother, Thomas. Since he would have very little allies or resources due to the attainder on his family name, I envisioned him as enlisting the help of what remains of the Carta. The dwarven mafia have been driven to the Surface, part because of Alistair and Sten's destruction of their headquarters back in the Lion and the Light, and part because the new king Harrowmont has had a huge clampdown on crime in Dust Town. So Nathaniel Howe comes ashore in Ferelden and makes an impulsive bargain with them. Unfortunately, while he's hiding out in the north, Nathaniel has begun to hear the true story of what happened between Flora and Rendon Howe – which he initially dismisses, and then gradually begins to realise that it's true – that his father had engineered the massacre of the Couslands and then abducted Flora with a view to illegally Tranquilise her, and that his younger brother Thomas had also had nefarious intentions. So he's a bit like OH SHIT and is trying to get out of the contract – which is when he sends the warning note to the Circle. Unfortunately, the Carta are not going to let him – or Flo – off quite so lightly, lol. So keep an eye out for dwarves with sinister intentions in upcoming chapters!
> 
> Obviously all that is just pure headcanon, hahaha, but I've tried to put a new spin on the game lore that fits in with my original story. Since Flo can’t be running around after Darkspawn in her condition, I decided to put her on a more political tangent!


	121. Wet, Cold, Rejected!

The king and queen lay huddled together with their heads on the same pillow; her cheek against his shoulder and his arm coiled around her back.

"What were you getting up for, Flo?" Alistair asked eventually, rousing himself from a doze.

"I was going to fetch a drink," Flora replied, stifling a yawn. "My throat is as dry as a cuttlefish shell."

He reached out to cup the back of her neck with a sleep-clumsy hand, brief and affectionate.

"My love, I'll get it for you."

Alistair clambered out of the tent, muttering a curse under his breath as several drops of icy condensation fell down his neck. Flora lay for several minutes amidst the tangle of blankets, then impulsively rolled over into the warm hollow left by her husband's broad, muscled frame. For a single, fleeting moment, she thought longingly of the bed in the Royal Bedchamber – wide, overstuffed and heated with hot coals in warm pans.

_You little shrimp, _Flora chided herself, reprovingly. _Missing warm beds and feather mattresses? Call yourself a Herring girl?_

When Alistair returned a short while later, Flora obligingly went to move back over onto her side of the bedroll. He put out an arm to stop her, offering a tin cup that smelt warm and aromatic.

"Stay there, baby. I made you your tea."

"Peppermint!"

"Mm. Careful, it's hot. Ugh, it smells like liquid grass!"

Flora reached out to grasp the tin vessel, grateful for its warmth. As she hunched over her stomach, Alistair settled down beside her and put an arm around her shoulders.

"I felt you fidgeting earlier, pumpkin. Couldn't you sleep?"

Flora thought about offering a reassuring lie – Herring girls did not complain! – but ultimately, she was too weary to summon a cheery denial.

"I have indigestion again," she confessed, shamefully. "My feet hurt, my back hurts. _Everything _is sore."

Alistair's mouth turned down in slow increments as the litany of ailments continued, even as his eyebrows rose.

"Darling," he said in distress, leaning forward to kiss the side of her sweaty forehead. "My poor girl. I'm going to have some _stern words _with these little infants when they finally emerge. They've made you feel rotten for _months."_

The thought of Alistair wagging his finger at two squirming and oblivious newborns made Flora smile.

"You're going to tell them off?"

"Yes," he murmured, sliding a strong palm downwards to rub the base of her spine in the same way that Zevran had done the night before. "Exercise my kingly discipline."

"_I_ miss your kingly discipline," she mumbled into the darkness, ducking her head as he eased the knots from her stuff joints with capable fingers. "Hmph."

Alistair shot her a quick, darting glance from the corner of his eye, his mouth tugging upwards in an involuntary smile.

"You do, baby?"

Flora nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Mm," she said wistfully, exhaling in relief as the tension in her back eased. "You don't throw me onto the bed anymore. Or take me up against a wall. Or in the stables, or on the grass outside. We don't do… _you know… _anymore."

Alistair had to bite back his laugh, a grin spreading across his handsome face.

"My love, you're almost _eight months _grown with child. Some things just aren't… physically possible anymore."

Flora let out a disgruntled grumble, heaving herself onto her side and glowering at the tent wall. There was a patch of mildew that looked almost exactly like Ferelden, and she reached out to touch it; feeling a pang of affection for the country she had spent the past year travelling around. It was almost the anniversary of when Duncan had plucked her from the Circle, his dark Rivaini eyes settling on her and changing the course of her life – and Ferelden's future – forever.

As she bit thoughtfully at her thumbnail, she felt Alistair rearrange himself around her; one arm circling beneath her stomach to support its weight.

"Darling," he murmured, brushing a cloud of dark red hair aside to press his lips to the back of her neck. "My sweet and gorgeous girl. I fully intend on _ravaging _you as soon as you're fit and well after the birth. It won't be long."

Flora pressed herself against him hopefully, wanting something to distract her from the maladies of her own body. Instead, her husband encompassed her in a comforting and wholly _unsexual_ cuddle, fitting his powerful frame neatly around her swollen shape. In one last ditch attempt to provoke his interest, she nudged her rear against his pelvis; a ploy that had never failed in the past.

In response Alistair kissed the top of her head in a gesture both chaste and tender, murmuring kind endearments into her ear.

"My little red lobster," he breathed, inhaling the warm, wood-fire scent of her hair. "There's nothing I wouldn't give you."

_Except yourself, _Flora thought in an increasingly melodramatic spiral of gloomy thoughts. _You've never turned me down before, never, ever! And now you don't want to lie with me… _

_Because I'm hideous! _

_Yes! That's it! He finds my physical body so physically repulsive that he can't bear the thought of doing anything to it. _

_Oh, no!_

This hypothesis was founded on nothing but hormonal paranoia, bearing in mind that the newlyweds had made love only two nights prior. Yet Flora was not thinking entirely rationally, the physical discomfort of her body fuelling the emotional imbalance of her mind.

She turned her face into the pillow, feeling it grow damp against her skin as a succession of tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.

Thus the king passed a comfortable night tucked protectively around his fat-bellied wife, while the queen lay quietly in the grips of physical and mental turmoil. She pictured herself as so vast and bloated that she could barely fit within the tent, one foot sticking out between the entrance flaps and her stomach distorting the canvas. These macabre visions were fuelled solely from her own imagination; and yet in the soft, muffled darkness of a Ferelden late summer night, they were easy to conjure.

As they broke their fast and packed up camp the next morning, everybody was especially kind to the red-eyed and miserable queen, who had clearly passed a restless night within the tent. Wynne did not engage in her usual practice of demanding the_ spellings_ of breakfast foods before handing them over – Flora had mastered _eggs_ but not _tomatoes_. One of the scouts, unprompted, made up some of the ginger tea that settled nausea.

Teagan took the noblest blow of all and bravely asked about fishing practises on the northern coast. This had the desired effect; the queen perked up a fraction and regaled the unfortunate bann with tedious minutiae for the next candle-length. He bore it manfully, asking the occasional question while distracting himself by gazing at the queen's grave and lovely face as it droned on about tedious marine trivia.

Once the camp had been packed up, the company set out once more on the road to the north. The moorland took on an increasingly coarse edge with each hour passed; the landscape cut more ruggedly and the vegetation sparser. This was the effect of the coastal winds, which tore their way inland with a ferocity that only waned after many miles. The trees were all bent backwards, forced into a bow in the face of such unyielding pressure.

The wind had also begun to take on a coastal undertone; a salty dash to the air that left a tingle on the tongue and dried out the skin. The Waking Sea was still two dozen leagues to the north, and yet it was beginning to make its presence known. The Royal party picked their way over the moorland, following a trail that was bumpy and uneven, and often half-buried by scrub or heather. Less pleasant to ride through were the gorse bushes, with their butter-yellow residue and deceptively sharp thorns. Teagan's pale calfskin breeches were soon covered in pale, pungent pollen. Flora, who had taken her boots off to relieve the pressure on her sore feet, hastily put them back on again.

Alistair, usually at complete ease within the saddle, sat poker-straight and taut. He was plagued with visions of Carta dwarves springing up from the heather; obsidian blades directed towards his dozing, plump-bellied wife. His hand – the one not clasped about her waist – kept moving compulsively to the hilt of his sword to check that it was still easily within reach.

"Peace," whispered an Antivan-accented voice from behind; Zevran riding up alongside the king with a soft nudge to his horse's flank. "Your sword has not fallen into the undergrowth. Although it may if you keep fiddling with it."

"I can't help it," Alistair retorted, eyes flickering back and forth. "I'm seeing enemies lurking everywhere! I thought the Mabari's shadow was a dwarf just now, I almost swung for it."

"Alistair, Alistair," crooned the elf, the corner of his mouth twisting upwards. "My gaze is _everywhere._ Besides, there is nothing but spiked bushes and granite for miles around. Trust me, for I speak from experience – there is no spot suitable to lay an ambush here."

Alistair fell silent for a moment, letting the reins slacken against the saddle. Far over their heads some predatory bird gave a mournful cry while circling high above the scrubland; a yellow eye focused on any slight movement within the undergrowth.

"I know," he said softly, reaching up to caress his snoring queen's throat as she rested her head on his shoulder. "I know I'm being paranoid. But, Zev, if _you_ were in my position, if you had a wife eight months heavy with babe –_ two_ _babes – _and there were assassins lurking somewhere with her name on their blade, how would you react?"

Alistair had not meant to be cruel with this tantalising fantasy, but the former Crow flinched regardless. Zevran's smile faltered for the briefest fraction of a second, but he made a valiant recovery moments later.

"Honestly?"

"Mm."

"I would put her in a small room with no windows, and guard the door like a lion."

Alistair grimaced, his brow furrowed as he picked up the reins once more.

"Eamon suggested that Flo go into confinement, like Isolde," he said, quietly. "I said no. I wanted her on the progress with me, and I didn't want her to feel trapped again – she'd already spent a month locked up in Revanloch. I swear to the Maker, if I've made a mistake- if I've made her _vulnerable _by taking her out of the city _\- "_

"Do not torture yourself, _mi rey. Carina _has more eyes on her than a spider."

The moors had begun to slope gently upwards, the trail climbing gradually towards a high and exposed plain. Overhead, the clouds took on a more sinister darkness, bloated and a rich pewter grey; full of the promise of rain. The temperature dropped a half-dozen degrees over the course of three hours.

As a light drizzle started to fall – a preview of what was to come - Teagan and the scout spent several minutes pouring over the map in the shelter of an overhanging crag of rock. They found an inn marked in faded ink only a half-candle in deviance from their route; Alistair agreed that they should aim to reach there before nightfall. He was eager for Flora to spend a night beneath a solid roof, in a warm bed – as opposed to under soggy and mildewed canvas.

Flora, like the occupants of her stomach, had spent much of the day sleeping. Trusting in Alistair to keep her securely on the saddle, she had hunched against his chest and snored solidly in dreamless slumber from midday to sunset. Even the increasing strength of the rain did not rouse her; nor did the stiffening wind.

Alistair, for his part, had done his best to shield his best friend from the inclement conditions. He had even wrapped his own travel cloak around Flora, in addition to her own.

"Uncle," he called through the waning light, raising his voice above the complaining wind. "Uncle!"

Teagan drew his horse up, swivelling in the saddle to squint at Alistair through the darkness. The trail was slowly ascending around a rocky crag, the moorland beyond temporarily hidden.

"Alistair?"

"My wife is _wet," _the king replied, with a note of distress in his voice. "She's wet, and _cold. _Where's this blasted tavern?"

"Your Majesty!" called one of the scouts from further ahead, his torch casting dizzying patterns across the towering granite rock formation. "I can see it!"

The Bronze Flagon stood out like a blister upon the open moorland; a low, stone-walled building tucked around a cobbled courtyard. The roof was constructed from grey tile, though several shingles had been stolen by the turbulent air. A wooden sign had been nailed flush beside the oak-barred door - the usual hanging sign would not have fared well in the constant winds – and the name of the tavern was painted in fading italics. Around the back of the building, a set of sprawling stables had been constructed, protected from the climatic conditions.

The innkeeper – a stout woman with a no-nonsense manner – took the news of the Royal company's arrival with remarkable stoicism. Within ten minutes of the dripping scout running inside to announce the arrival of the _King of Ferelden_, the horses had been stabled and towelled dry, the company's baggage taken to guestrooms, and the company themselves seated around a gnarled pinewood table before a roaring fireplace.

Alistair had placed his yawning wife on a stool before the hearth, peeled off the damp woollen cloaks, and then left her to warm up while he investigated the other occupants of the tavern. A drunken elf snored away in a corner booth, a tankard precariously grasped between slender fingertips. Nearby, a man with a tangled beard and rheumy eyes spooned beef stew into his mouth, a half-breed Mabari lying across his worn boots. Neither man showed much interest in the new arrivals, to Alistair's relief.

"We want to stay as discreet as possible," he murmured to the innkeeper, who gave a grunt of agreement. "Who else is staying in the tavern tonight?"

"Just me own family," replied the woman in a thick northern brogue, wiping the inside of a tankard with a grimy cloth. "Me 'usband an' our boys. An elf lad who we took in, years ago. And me blasted father-in-law. If yeh hear groanin' during the night, it'll be him. He's dyin'."

"What's wrong with him?" asked Alistair in mild alarm, envisioning some exotic and highly contagious disease.

The tavern-keeper snorted, following the king's glance towards his damp-haired wife.

"Years on the ale," she replied, wryly. "His insides are shot, poor sod'll be dead in months. Don't feel sorry for the old bugger, he's a foul-mouthed git."

"Right," said Alistair, blinking. "Ah, thank you. I'd like a warm bath brought to our chamber, as soon as possible. Thank you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I am definitely not a camper, and I can't imagine the horrors of camping while heavily pregnant, lol. But it'll be good for Flo to spend the night in a tavern. She is definitely being highly paranoid re Alistair not wanting her – has he ever been reluctant to shag her before? Haha! Never! But he's also never turned down her advances before, which is a bit of a shock for poor old Flo, lol.
> 
> Anyway, here's a useful tool for anyone who writes – the donjon tavern generator. It creates a randomised tavern (you can set it to common, good or fancy) with a physical description, a name, a menu and a variety of predetermined guests – I've used it lots for whenever I write about an inn! Just google "donjon tavern generator".
> 
> So close to the northern coast now! I'm loving writing all this stuff, hehehe


	122. A Difference Of Opinion

Flora followed Alistair down the wood-panelled corridor of the tavern, oblivious to the faded décor and moth-eaten rugs. With the prospect of a _bath, _she was also determined to lure her husband into her arms; based on precedent, the king found it near-impossible to resist the charms of his wet, soap-covered wife.

"I'm feeling very _incriminated_ tonight," she announced, batting her eyelashes at Alistair's back.

"Incriminated?" he replied, shooting her a glance with brows raised. "Why's that, darling? Who's been accusing you? I'll have them thrown into the dungeons!"

_Accusing me? _Flora thought in perplexion as the tavern-keeper showed them into a large, fire-lit chamber with exposed wooden beams and a worn tartan rug on the flagstones.

_Accusing me of what? _

_Oh, I said incriminated. I meant to say stimulated. _

The tavern-keeper gave them a brief 'tour' of the room facilities – which took less than a minute – and then took her leave, promising a warm bath in moments.

As the door shut with a creak of ill-fitting wood, Alistair placed their travel packs on the low chest at the foot of the bed. The king then turned his attentions to the hearth, advancing on the dying flames with poker in hand.

Flora made a brief and ill-advised attempt to pull off her boots from a standing position. After almost losing her balance, she gave up on removing the boots and instead sprawled back - in what she hoped was a seductive manner - on the mattress.

"My goal, sweetheart," announced Alistair, turning away from the flames with poker in hand. "Is for you to spend _every night_ in a bed, under a solid roof, between now and the birth. I don't want you to have another interrupted sleep, my love."

Dusting cinders from his breeches, he replaced the poker and turned his attention to his queen. On the bed, a pair of legs protruded at odd angles from a high, swollen stomach; nothing else of Flora was visible.

"Are you aroused?" came the indignant demand from the stomach. "Are you?"

Alistair blinked in confusion, his brow furrowing.

"Wha-?"

"Are," repeated Flora, slightly breathless from the weight of her own belly. "You. AROUSED?"

Alistair opened his mouth to respond, and then the door opened with a shove to overcome the sticky jamb. The innkeeper and her husband manhandled in a copper bathtub, accidentally sloshing half of the contents over the flagstones as they deposited it in the centre of the room.

"There you go, your majesties," announced the innkeeper, tucking grey-brown curls behind her ears. "One hot bath. Sorry we ain't got no fancy oils, jus' sheep-grease soap. Does the queen need any assistance?"

"Perfect," breathed Alistair, more concerned with the temperature than the accompanying toiletries. "And no, I'll help my wife to bathe. Thank you."

Flora pushed herself upright on the blankets with a little grunt of effort, her eyes fixed on her husband rather than on the steaming bath.

"Maker's Breath," the king commented, rolling up sleeves over muscular arms. "I can't say I'm a fan of your northern drizzle, darling. I'm soaked through!"

Flora reached up to unlace her tunic as he came over to help her disrobe, first kneeling at her feet and turning his attention to her boots.

"Well, I _like_ getting wet," she whispered down at him, in her best semblance of a seductive purr. "It makes me want to… take off my clothes."

"We do need to get these wet things off, baby," the oblivious Alistair agreed, massaging his thumbs into the sore balls of her feet. "I won't have you catching a cold."

Flora, slightly grumpily, raised her arms above her head and allowed him to remove the tunic. It took a more concerted effort to squirm free of her breeches – they were now _exceptionally _tight – and when she was finally naked, they found that the seams had left red imprints on her thighs.

"It may be time for Leliana's robes, pumpkin," Alistair murmured, keeping an iron grip on his wife as she lowered herself into the bath. "Those leather trousers can't be comfortable anymore."

Flora grimaced, sinking into the warm water up to her chin and furrowing her brow.

"I feel most comfortable in my _bare, naked skin," _she offered, eyeing Alistair hopefully as he retrieved the sheep-fat soap.

"Time to grease you up like a little sausage going into the pan," he announced, rubbing his hands into a rapid lather.

_In the past, he's never been able to resist jumping into the bath once he's oiled me up with Leliana's stinking bath perfumes, _Flora thought to herself, reclining back against the rim of the bath and thrusting her breasts above the waterline.

Unfortunately, Alistair swooped forward with the gusto of a shepherd scrubbing clean a mud-covered lamb; rubbing her hair into a soapy mass between brisk palms. Flora immediately closed her eyes and spat out a mouthful of suds, feeling greasy liquid streaming in rivulets down her face.

"My love," he said, as she hunched forwards and gasped for air. "It's a shame that the babies don't like meat. This inn offers the most gorgeous smelling veal stew."

"E-eel stew?"

"No, my dear – _veal _stew."

"What's a veal?"

"A calf."

"Oh dear," said Flora, determinedly not thinking too much on this in case it triggered another emotional outburst. "I'm sure they've got a vegetable version. Or a proper eel version! We are near the Waking Sea, after all."

She allowed herself a small squirm of excitement, for tomorrow they would be in _Herring – _her home of ten years, which she had not seen in fully half that time; a place which had carved itself indelibly on her soul while shaping her character far more than any noble heritage.

Alistair cupped his hands together to gather up a palmful of warm water, tipping it over Flora's sudsy head. Flora blinked at him through tendrils of damp hair; he smiled down at her, the green flecks in his eyes softening with a tender regard. Letting the soap drop to the bottom of the tub, he reached out and smoothed a hand around her hairline, tracing the high contour of her brow with a thumb.

"Maker's Breath, my pretty girl," he said, quietly. "You have my whole heart and soul, my love."

"I love you," she replied, equally solemn.

The king leaned forward with a hand on the edge of the bath, kissing her on the side of the head. Flora eyed him a moment, and then decided to try her luck.

"Would you like to come in the bath with me?" she asked, hearing the hope raw in her own voice. "We used to bathe together all the time, remember."

"Sweetheart, I'm not sure there'd be enough room!" Alistair replied, entirely without thinking. "Not with _four _of us."

Flora sunk down amidst the greasy bubbles, feeling a hollow scrape of sadness in her belly. Alistair had never rejected her advances before – and now he had done so _three times _since the previous night. A tear ran down her cheek, but it melted into the remnants of soapy bubbles and was undetectable.

There was a knock at the door, and moments later Zevran curled his head around the frame; blowing a kiss to the miserable Flora before turning his gaze on Alistair.

"They are bringing out the food, _mi rey._ Will you grace us with your royal presence, or do you plan on staying in the company of your delightfully unclothed wife?"

Flora bit back a grumpy comment, clawing her way to her feet in a graceless lumber with her hair plastered to her breasts.

"I'm starving! I want eel stew! Not veal."

The tavern-keeper's family had rallied around in the kitchen, producing a surprisingly substantial spread for the Royal party with only short notice. Braised hare with mustard and leeks was served alongside a rich beef pottage, with lavender-infused biscuits for dessert. For Flora, whose tastes narrowed with every month that she bore her children, there was a large platter of millet bread and curd cheese, accompanied by a roasted artichoke stew.

Alistair and the others devoured their food, made hungry by a long day of journeying. Even Wynne abandoned her usual delicate table manners, forsaking cutting the hare into smaller parts in favour of lifting pieces directly to her mouth.

Flora was still sulking from being thrice-rejected in the bedroom. She had decided to ask Zevran for some _seduction advice _when the elf had a spare moment – he was currently busy beating one of the scouts at Wicked Grace.

"Alistair, have you thought on what your priorities are going to be for your first year as king?" the senior enchanter asked suddenly, lowering her tankard to the ring-stained wooden table. "Once you've returned to Denerim."

Alistair swallowed a mournful of braised hare and nodded, leaning back in his chair. The other patrons had made a hasty departure, intimidated by the guards and the glittering dark eyes of the elf; they were alone within the main room of the tavern. The tavern-keeper stood behind the counter wiping ale-stains from tankards with a rag; she had perfected a barkeep's disinterested stare.

"I've thought about it a lot while we've been travelling," he replied, earnestly. "I may not have wanted the throne at first, but… but now that I'm _on _it, there's a lot that I want to do. Eamon was right; I can be Ferelden's most dedicated servant as its king."

"And what _do_ you wish to do?" Wynne continued quietly, folding her napkin into small, even folds.

"Well, my first priority is Flo and our children," Alistair said, to nobody's surprise. "I won't resume official business until she's fit and well after the twins are born, however long it takes. And then – I'm not sure how it's going to work, yet. I want to keep my family close to me even when I return to the country's affairs."

"I'll bring them to council meetings," Flora replied, immediately. "Babies sleep a lot, and I can feed them there. I don't think anyone would mind."

Teagan, glancing sideways at the young and pretty queen, bit back his agreement – he was certain that nobody would mind in the least if she gave a babe the breast at the table.

"You're the Hero of Ferelden, and those infants have been through more than most men," he replied, mildly. "Who would protest?"

Alistair reached beneath the table and squeezed Flora's thigh affectionately, flashing her a brief, wistful smile.

"Anyway," the king continued, forcing himself to think of a priority that was not solely involving his own burgeoning family. "I want to see that the restoration committees are all provisioned well for the winter. And that there are no refugees left on the docks – either they return to their homes and join the rebuilding efforts, or we pay for their passage to the Marches. I don't want to encourage vagrancy in Denerim. I also want to strengthen the Royal Army – it's all very well relying on the elves, mages and dwarves when there's a Blight; but the men and women of Ferelden need to be able to defend the nation under any circumstance. I know we can't afford a professional, full time army like Orlais – though a Fereldan foot-soldier is worth three _chevaliers – _but I wonder if there's a way to keep the men trained even when they're decommissioned?"

"In Ansburg, there's a compulsory drill week every three months," offered Teagan, thoughtfully. "Hosted by the Margravaine. It does a reasonable job of keeping the fighting instinct fresh in the minds of men."

Alistair gave a slow nod, his eyes darkening as he mulled this over.

"That might be an idea," he replied, drumming his fingers on the table. "Anyway, those are my two priorities. I suppose we'll have to meet with bloody Orlais at some point, too."

Zevran took advantage of the pause to crow a victory, turning over his cards to reveal a winning hand. The scout, grumbling heartily, turned out his pockets to pay the elf his prize.

"What about you, Florence?" asked Wynne, turning her attention to the quiet, brooding queen. "Do you have things which you wish to do as queen? Or will you focus on raising the children?"

"No, I have things," replied Flora immediately, lifting her pale eyes from her half-demolished aubergine. "I can raise the children _and _do them. I want to help Gwaren to recover. I want to improve conditions in the alienage. And I want to make sure that life in the Circle is… well. As tolerable for mages as possible. Leliana told me about a priestess who might be able to help, a lady from an Orlesian Chantry called Dorothea. She seems a bit more – tolerant."

Alistair shot his wife a swift, sideways smile.

"My beautiful queen," he said, with no qualms in openly expressing his adoration for her. "There's no one I'd rather have on the throne at my side."

"And yet," Zevran murmured into Wynne's ear, taking advantage of the front door swinging open to disguise his words. "I'd still place coin on the wager that they would rather live a quiet life in some little tucked-away village, free of the crown's burden. Free to raise their new family in rural, domestic bliss."

Wynne's mouth curved upwards in a rueful smile; she had thought long and hard on this issue over the past few months. Her conscience did not sit easy with the thought of two young people forced into a lifetime commitment that they did not truly want – especially two people who had done Ferelden immeasurable service. However, in recent weeks she had begun to change her mind; after both conversation _with_ and observation _of_ the new royals.

"I'm not sure," she replied, letting the howl of the wind beyond the stone walls disguise her words. "I think Alistair truly wants the throne now – he's grown enough to realise that he could make a good job of it. And Flora _needs _it; it's a distraction from the grief of losing her spirits and a way for her to continue helping people even with the severance of her magic."

Zevran mused on the senior enchanter's words, his head dropping in a slow nod.

"You are a wise woman, Wynne," he said after a moment, seeing the reason in her words. "I wonder which of us comes closer to the truth?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway, this was a fun chapter to write – poor old Flo! Rejected in the bedroom! Aside from being almost eight months pregnant, she's not very good at active seduction; she had always just relied on her looks to lure Alistair into bed. The thought of her trying to arrange herself alluringly in the bathwater – and then him swooping forward to lather up her entire head in an entirely unsexy manner with sheep-fat soap – actually makes me laugh, hahaha.
> 
> I also thought it was an interesting point at the end – having these two different theories about what Alistair and Flora would prefer. Zevran's suggestion that they would be happiest living with the twins in a little village, far from courtly intrigue and politics, is an interesting one. But so is Wynne's theory – her point about Flora needing a new focus in the wake of her magic-loss is persuasive; and there's a piece of dialogue in game where a hardened Alistair admits that he does want the throne after all. I've left it deliberately ambiguous so people can make up their own mind ;)


	123. If Loveliness Were Water

The arrival at the door had been the tavern-keeper's son, who performed the role of stable-hand as well as pot-washer and linen-scrubber. He hesitantly approached the royal company with the news that one of the horses had an awkwardly shaped stone stuck in its shoe, and he couldn't get it out. The horse had grown testy, and refused to let him touch the hoof.

Teagan and Alistair, the most experienced in dealing with horses, immediately rose to their feet and followed the lad outside. Wynne decided to retire to her assigned chamber for the night; she had another few inches that she wished to add onto her letter to Irving.

The tavern-keeper slung several more logs onto the fire – the wind outside was picking up in ferocity, rattling windows in their panes and seeking out cracks in the walls. Small draughts flickered candles, and blew dried autumnal leaves across the flagstones.

Left with a yawning scout and her elven companion, Flora leaned forward and tapped her fingers imperatively against the latter's slender wrist.

"Zevran, Zevran!"

"_Amor, amor!"_

"I need advice," she continued, wide-eyed and earnest. "On an _unguent_ matter."

"Ah, if it is an _unguent _matter, I will devote my entire attention to it," Zevran said, kindly. _"Urgent _matters, I am slower to attend to."

Flora let out a little impatient huff, continuing to tap her nail-bitten fingers against the tendons of his wrist.

"I need help in seducing my husband," she breathed, solemnly. "Now that I am a _whale-human hybrid_, he no longer finds me attractive. Instead, he sees me as a…a… a misshapen beast of yore!"

"As a _beast of yore?" _Zevran repeated, trying his hardest not to laugh in the face of Flora's distress. "_Carina, _surely this is a jest. Alistair cannot keep his hands off you. He touches you nonstop when you are together; it is both sweet and vaguely nauseating to watch."

"But he doesn't want to_ lie_ with me anymore," Flora interrupted, melodramatically. She had forgotten about the presence of the scout, who had gone the colour of a beetroot. "He's rejected me _three times _in a row. He doesn't find me attractive!"

Flora wore the faintly outraged expression of one who was _used_ to being desired. She had always been aware of the fact that she was an attractive girl – it was an accident of birth that had given her no advantage in either Herring or the Circle, where brawn and brains respectively were prized far more.

Alistair had certainly never been resistant to her looks before – he had confessed that when they had first met, he acted aloof because he had been intimidated by her cold-eyed, full-lipped beauty. When they became lovers three months later, all it took to draw her brother-warden's attention was a darting little glance from beneath her lashes, or a swift bite of a lower lip, or the nudge of a finger against her mouth. Now, it seemed, he had become immune.

"Impossible," Zevran replied bluntly, his dark eyes meandering over her finely-hewn features. "If loveliness were water, _nena, _you would be the entire ocean. When you look into the sea, the fish forget how to _swim_ because of your beauty and they sink to the sandy bottom."

Although the words were lyrical and poetic, they were uttered without artifice. Flora chewed miserably on her thumbnail, brooding.

"But nothing has worked," she complained, keeping an eye on the door. "None of my usual tricks. When I licked my lips, he asked if I wanted a _snack!"_

Zevran felt an odd wrangling of emotion within his gut – on the one hand, he was dying to giggle at Flora's overly dramatic complaints. On the other, he was uncomfortably aware that there was little he would not give to be in Alistair's position.

"Perhaps he worries that he might hurt you, or the babes," the elf said instead, trying to keep his response relatively neutral. "We both know that he can be a little _over-enthusiastic _at times between the sheets."

"He's been gentler recently," Flora corrected, grumpily. "Ugh! You shouldn't call me your _little mermaid _anymore. You should call me your _sea monster. _How do you say _sea monster _in Antivan?"

"_Monstruo marino," _Zevran said, biting back a grin. "But, _carina,_ I shall do nothing of the sort. You will always be _mi pequeña sirena."_

Flora curved the corner of her mouth ruefully at him, resting her chin in her hand.

"Do you really think it's... it's just because he's worried, and not because he thinks I'm repulsive_?"_

"I am certain, _nena," _Zevran replied firmly, fixing his dark stare to his own. "Anyway, he is… he is a fool if he turns you down."

Flora impulsively touched her fingers to her lips, reaching out to press the kiss against her friend's tattooed cheek.

"And he's not a fool," she replied, withdrawing her hand and smiling at him. _"_Hm, alright. I will need to _subtly communicate_ to him that he's not going to hurt me by bedding me."

Zevran eyed her; if there was one characteristic that he would _not _use to describe their northern queen, it was _subtle. _

When Teagan and Alistair returned shortly afterwards, the elf could see Flora squirming in her seat, her thoughts writ visibly across her face. Alistair let his arm fall over her shoulder as he sat, inching his chair closer to hers.

"Is the mare's hoof well?" enquired Zevran, eyes flashing over the rim of his glass. "What a lucky creature to receive the attentions of _two _handsome men!"

"The stone is out," the king replied, idly fingering a strand of his wife's thick hair. "All it took was a hoof-pick and a bit of patience."

Teagan nodded, leaning back in his seat and sweeping a scrutinising eye around the tavern. The other patrons had stumbled out into the night – back to shepherd's huts and stone shelters – and they were alone within the fire-lit chamber. There were no other travellers staying within the tavern itself; which was fortunate, since their party took up the entirety of the eight chambers ascribed for guests.

"Good that it's been seen to," the bann added, softly. "I've seen horses go lame due to ill-maintained shoes. Shall I get another round?"

Zevran, who always appreciated another man's offer to pay, gave an eager nod. Alistair shook his head; he already felt the evening's earlier ale blurring the edge of his thoughts. He did not want to meet Flora's Herring-father - nor the mysterious spectre of her Herring-_mother - _with a sore head.

"Do you want anything, poppet?" the bann asked Flora, rising to his feet. "I can get one of those grass teas made up for you."

Flora shook her head, tugging a loose thread on the sleeve of her jumper. After Teagan had gone to speak with the innkeeper, she brushed her fingers against Alistair's elbow as he leaned forward on the table. He reached out to catch the fingers against his palm, bringing her hand to his lips to press a soft kiss to her knuckles.

"Alistair?"

"Yes, my love?"

"I feel very _sturdy_ tonight," she said, peering at him with limpid eyes from beneath her eyelashes. "And durable. And the babies are asleep. Do you want to… get an early night with me?"

Zevran snorted at her lack of subtlety, his gaze swivelling towards Alistair. The king, unfortunately, seemed oblivious to his wife's latent meaning.

"That's a good idea, sweetheart," he agreed, nodding. "I want you to get at _least _eight hours sleep every night between now and the birth. Ideally, nine or ten!"

Flora's lower lip wobbled, a sudden brightness to her pale irises. Before she could protest, one of the scouts entered the main tavern with a rolled-up scroll in his fist.

"Your majesty," he announced, the thick Denerim accent sounding oddly out of place within Ferelden's northern reaches. "I've a message from the sheriff of Pendle, a village ten leagues south. Says he thinks Howe passed through there."

Alistair's face contracted with a brief flicker of rage; merely the mention of the man's name was enough to ignite the king's ire. Teagan was already moving, retrieving a map from his travel-pack and sweeping aside the other detritus on the table to spread it flat.

"I'm going to bed," Flora announced, not wanting the tears gathered at the roots of her eyelashes to spill over.

Alistair grimaced for a second, performing a mental assessment of the building's security. Fortunately, the tavern followed the custom of most isolated and vulnerable dwellings by minimising the possible points of entry. There was only one entrance into the squat, stone building; and it was the doorway that opened into the main tavern. The windows were tightly shuttered from inside, bolstered by wooden bars and rusting iron latches.

"I'll be in as soon as I've read this report," he promised his gloomy wife, nuzzling his face against her small, curling fingers. "Get some rest, my love."

Zevran shot Flora a sympathetic glance as she passed; taking advantage of the others' distraction to murmur quietly to her.

"I'll speak with him at an opportune moment, _nena." _

"No, no," she mouthed back, feeling an unhappy flush rise to her cheeks. "It's _embarrassing."_

Flora did not particularly care for the contents of the report from Pendle; she trusted in her companions to keep her safe and reasoned that the less she knew, the less anxious she would be. She shuffled down the corridor, passing the chambers assigned to her companions, until she reached the bedroom assigned to the royal couple.

The room itself was almost stiflingly hot and pungently aromatic; an abundance of smouldering gorse piled onto the hearth. With little in the way of trees on the moorland, those that dwelt upon it made use of the resources they had in natural abundance. Feeling several beads of sweat rise to her forehead, Flora changed into a pair of cream and pale blue striped pyjamas, with the Theirin crest sewn above the breast. One of the Mabari had clearly been at the shirt – one sleeve was ragged and chewed almost up to the elbow. Flora, for whom such things did not matter, put the pyjamas on regardless.

The queen was not particularly tired, and so – feeling virtuous and wishing that Wynne was there to witness her – she decided to practice her literacy. She had finished the second volume of _Exotic Fish of Thedas _during their stay at the Circle, and now she had a choice as to which book to embark upon next. There was the _Child's Illustrated History of Ferelden _that Wynne had given her; alternately, a slender tome of translated Antivan poetry from Zevran.

The latter had a naked woman inscribed on the leatherbound cover. Flora eyed it dubiously for a moment, then opened the book at random and gazed at the words scribed elegantly across the page. Unfortunately, the language was explicit enough that Flora had no idea what anything meant – even when she checked the handwritten dictionary that Alistair had created for her on a string-bound sheaf of parchment, the meaning of certain words was nowhere to be found.

Sighing, Flora closed the poetry book and replaced it alongside its more cerebral companion. Tucking several loose ropes of hair back into her braid, she sat down on the edge of the bed and blew out her cheeks, grumpily.

Just then, from somewhere outside the half-ajar door, there came the distinct sound of a groan.

Flora blinked, sitting up straighter as she felt one of the babies squirm within her stomach.

"Wha- " she whispered out loud into the gorse-scented gloom, wondering if she had imagined the peculiar sound.

The groan came again- a pitiful sound, miserable and weak as a kitten.

Flora pushed herself to her feet, feeling another little wriggle from her abdomen as the squirming twin woke up its sibling.

Crossing the chamber, she paused in the open doorway, tilting her head to one side. At the far end of the gloom-shrouded corridor, she could hear the faint murmur of conversation echoing from the tavern – Alistair and the others no doubt discussing the news from Pendle.

_Did I just imagine the other sound? _Flora thought to herself, perplexed. _It sounded like a – _

A moment later, the groan came again; wending its way through the candle-lit corridor from the opposite end. Flora stood for a moment, frozen in indecision – _she was no longer a healer, she couldn't mend anyone – _but the instinct to respond was too powerful to ignore.

She shuffled down the corridor, past the last of the rooms assigned to the royal company. At the far end, one of the doors embedded into the stone was on the jar – the faintest thread of light creeping from beneath the wood.

Clad in socks and pyjamas, Flora rapped her knuckles gently against the frame.

"Go'way, Myra," came the reply, weak and shrivelled. "Don't… don't need yer 'elp."

It was a northerner's voice like Flora's own; one also made husky by the abrasive winds and incessant rains of the Storm Coast.

"I'm not Myra," she replied, putting her mouth to the gap in the door. "Do you need some help?"

There was silence for a few moments, and then the unmistakable sound of somebody being sick. This was a summons that Flora had never been able to ignore, and she pushed open the door, stepping inside the room.

The chamber was small, crowded and swathed in shadow. As well as a bedroom, it was clearly used as a place for storage – around a narrow bed, boxes and crates had been piled almost as high as the ceiling. One anaemic candle burnt in a dish; two more candlesticks had toppled over and lay extinguished. The only other light came from a narrow window, through which shone a thin sliver of moon.

The room smelt of human suffering; the sour odour of stale and fresh vomit mingling with unwashed flesh and the general decay of the dying. A man lay within the stained bedsheets, tangled grey hair matted over his bare shoulders. Even in the dim light, the jaundiced tone of abscess-riddled skin was visible, and his abdomen was swollen.

"Ah," he slurred, each word laboured out in an effort. "Sorry, lass. Thought you was me daughter-in-law."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Poor old Flo, lol! Instead of shenanigans with her handsome king, she's ended up in the company of a dying alcoholic northerner. Alistair is still very much in dad-mode, as opposed to husband-mode. Oh well, at least she had the good intention of studying before bed. Ha ha at Zevran giving her a book of erotic Antivan poetry as practice reading – I'm not sure how much academic value she's going to get out of that!


	124. The Dying Captain

Flora had paused in the doorway just long enough to ascertain that the man was not suffering from potentially communicable disease. Once she had spotted the yellowed tones of his skin, she recognised his condition as _ale-bowel; _a deterioration of the organs as a result of too much hard drinking. From the palsy in the man's fingers and the swelling of his stomach, he clearly did not have much longer to live. There were abscesses on his skin where the flesh had rotted, foul-stinking black pustules clustered near his arm-pits and elbows.

With a healer's immunity to the fetid smell, Flora entered the room and turned the toppled candlesticks upright, touching the remaining candle to each wick in turn. A little more light now flooded the room, illuminating the sea of empty bottles littering the floor.

"Why are you so fat?" the man croaked in a slur, narrowing failing eyes at her through the dimly-lit shadow.

"I'm not fat, I'm having twins," retorted Flora, matching his northern bluntness. "In about a month's time."

_And no sooner, _she thought sternly to her own abdomen. _Stay in there until we get to Denerim, please. _

_Actually, no 'pleases'. That is your first instruction from your mother, an inviolable rule! _

"Huh," replied the man, letting his head drop listlessly to one side. He was not asleep, but stared into the darkness with resignation, fingers trembling on the stained sheets. The pungent smell of the unwashed rose from his yellowed flesh; he had not been bathed in some time.

Flora looked around for some spare sheets and could see none. There was an odd array of items stacked around them – a broken cart-wheel propped against the wall, a shovel, a roll of moth-eaten curtains.

"I'll be back in a moment," she said impulsively, reversing back into the corridor.

Three trips between her chamber and the man's sickroom later, Flora had brought in the sheets from her and Alistair's bed, a bowl and ewer of fire-heated water, and several squares of stiff, white linen. Puffing slightly, she had also retrieved the low three-legged stool from beside the hearth, which she now dropped with a weary clatter onto the floorboards.

The man eyed Flora in wary suspicion as she carefully removed the stained sheets, bundling them together and putting them to one side.

It took a little more effort to replace them with clean linens – everything took a little more effort in her current condition – and she was breathless by the time that she had finished.

Needing to rest for a moment, Ferelden's new queen dragged the stool to the bedside and sat down on it with a little grunt, reaching awkwardly to rub her bound knee through her pyjamas. For a moment there was silence, save for the drizzle against the window-pane and the man's laboured breathing.

"Myra says I brought this death on meself," the man said at last, with a reedy grunt that was perhaps meant to be a chuckle. "Took too much solace in the bottle over the years."

Flora gazed solemnly down at her own bitten-nailed fingers. There had been those who had taken to the bottle within Herring – especially those whom the sea had been cruel to over the years, snatching away more than its fair share of family.

"I ain't got much longer left," he said, with the soft acceptance of the slowly dying. "I won't make it to year's end. I welcome it: I'll be with me men again."

"Your men?" Flora asked, raising her pale, curious gaze to rest on his sallow face.

The man nodded, a wistful flicker of reminiscence passing through his own clouded irises.

"I was the captain of the Denerim Forward Sixth," he said, softly. "Fought in the rebellion against Orlais, under the banner of Maric the Saviour."

"You fought against Orlais?"

"That's what I said, ain't it?" he retorted, then quietened a fraction. "Aye, lass. We fought at Southron against the _chevvy-leers_ – that were a great one, that battle."

" Southron?" asked Flora, her interest piqued. "Did you ever go to Ostagar?"

"The old Vint ruin? No, girl. We was followin' the command of the lady Guerrin. She led us on horseback straight into the flanks of the Orlesian general's army – brave woman, she were. Stood as tall as a man, and rode twice as good as any."

Flora's face contorted – for a moment, she thought that the old veteran was talking about _Isolde. _Shortly afterwards, she realised that he was referring to the _lady Guerrin _of the previous generation, Eamon and Teagan's sister, Rowan.

"And your company fought well?" she asked, testing the temperature of the water in the bowl with her wrist.

The veteran broke into a coughing fit instead of responding, discoloured spittle dribbling down his chin. Flora busied herself with soaking the corner of a linen square in the bowl, waiting for him to resume speaking.

"Lass, you never seen anything like it," the dying man croaked, once he had regained some composure. There was a flicker of animation across his sallow features; for a moment, the handsome man he must once have been was briefly visible. "My men fought in those hills like they was defendin' the Maker's throne from demons. Old Geraint even claimed for months after that he'd been the one to strike the first blow into the Orlesian commander, Felix. The lady Guerrin herself praised our valour once the day was won."

As the man spoke, Flora began to daub gently at his jaundiced chest with the damp linen, cleaning away several days of dried sweat and bile from the matted grey hair. She had never put much stock in the belief that _pus _was beneficial to the mending of a wound, and so wiped all that she could see away from the abscesses.

"Did you fight in any other battles against the Orlesians?" she enquired, leaning forward on the stool to reach across the old soldier's sunken ribcage.

"Aye," he said quietly into the shadows, his eyes distant and shrouded with memory. "We took part in the ambush of the _chevvy-leers_ at Gwaren. It was the idea of the Royal Commander, Loghain Mac Tir – though he weren't so much as a lowly captain back then. Do you know who Loghain Mac Tir is, lass?"

Flora nodded in silent confirmation; she did _indeed_ know who Loghain Mac Tir was. Instead of elaborating, she wrung out the linen cloth and submerged it in the warm water once more.

"The Denerim Sixth hid in the ruins of an old warehouse," the soldier reminisced, softly. "We was there for a day and a night before the Orlesians arrived."

"Why were you hiding?" Flora asked, feeling a squirm in her stomach as one infant tested the boundaries of its confines with a foot. Giving it a quick pat, she leaned forwards and continued to dab at the man's soiled flesh.

"'Cause they outnumbered us," he retorted, with a grunt. "Two to one. Didn't make a difference to my company; we leapt out and cut them to ribbons. The alleyways ran crimson that night."

Flora just about managed to stifle a grimace; she had to remind herself that – in this instance – _'them' _had been Orlesian chevaliers, the _enemy, _the ones who had occupied Ferelden for decades.

The soldier caught the tail end of her expression and gave a rueful snort, his bloodshot eyes focusing on her with some difficulty.

"Eh, lass? Did I offend your delicate sensibilities? I bet you never seen a fight to the death in your life."

Flora almost dropped the bowl of water but managed to bite back her cackle, letting out a noncommittal grunt as she soaked the cloth once again.

There was silence for a few moments; broken only by the dripping of the water back into the bowl. The dying soldier leaned back against the threadbare cushion, regret creasing itself across his face.

"It didn't go well for us rebels at the Battle of West Hill," he continued, quietly. "I – I made a bad call. Sent my company into a death trap. Only three of them made it out. Afterwards, they… they blamed me."

Flora let her pale eyes settle curiously on him as she dabbed gently at the protruding ribs, wiping away week-old sweat. The soldier looked up at the ceiling with failing vision, squinting as though he could see the faces of his dead comrades etched into the plaster.

"Have you got any dead, lass?"

Flora nodded; she had dozens.

"How… how do you honour 'em?"

"I light candles," she replied quietly, thinking on her blazing concentric arcs of remembrance. "In their memory."

The man nodded, his eyes sliding sideways to the bottles littering the floor. For the briefest moment, regret flickered across his haggard and prematurely lined face, the corner of his mouth twisting.

"Better call than the one I made," he muttered, rueful and sad. "Ah, well. At least I'll see my men again soon. Though I doubt they'll be eager to see me."

Flora let the linen cloth rest in the bowl, reaching down to turn some of the toppled bottles upright. A spider scuttled out from one and she caught it on a finger, letting it dangle as she pushed herself to her feet.

The dying veteran watched her as she shuffled across the room, unlatched the narrow window and let the spider drop gently free. After nudging the window-lock back into place, Flora used her elbow to rub away the layer of dust and grime coating the glass. A thin shaft of moonlight now shone into the sick man's chamber, falling onto the bed with silver-edged radiance.

"I don't think spirits hold grudges," she replied, padding back across the room and easing herself onto the stool. "I wouldn't worry."

Flora picked up the damp cloth once again, reaching out to take the old soldier's hand. As she turned her attention to the grubby palm and yellowed fingers, he let out another hollow, grating cough.

"It hurts when I piss – sorry, _pass water_. That ain't good, is it, lass?"

"Not particularly," she replied with northern bluntness, relieved that the woken twin had gone back to sleep within her. "Would you like me to fetch you something to drink? Some _water." _

The man let out a grunt in the negative, eyeing her.

"Eh, did you hear about the Blight in the south?" he asked, assuming from her accent that she lived locally. "Apparently it's been ended now, by the new Theirin on the throne. And by some mage who ain't a mage no more. Maker took her magic as a reward for her services, apparently."

"Hm," said Flora, rubbing the damp cloth up the length of his arm. "I did hear about the Blight, actually."

"Nasty business that, eh? Ah, well. Least it's over now."

"Mm," continued the queen, noncommittally. "Here, give me your other hand."

In the main tavern, those gathered around the note from Pendle had finally finished their discussions. Unfortunately, the sheriff from Pendle had not thought to detain the man he believed to be Howe for further questioning – Alistair had wanted to ride out to the small village that night and interrogate the man personally. Teagan had managed to detract him from his pointless endeavour, skilfully realigning the king back to the task at hand.

Now, they sat around the table before the dying embers of the hearth, each nursing a final flagon of ale. The yawning tavern keeper, eager to lock up for the night, kept jangling her keys pointedly. Like most northerners, she was not overly cowed by nobility.

"We've an early start in the morning," Teagan reminded Alistair quietly, his pale green eyes appearing almost hazel in the muted firelight. "We should retire for the night."

Alistair nodded distractedly as he took a sip of his ale, a crease of thought embedded across his brow.

"Mm."

"Right, then" murmured Zevran, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers. "If you'll excuse me, _caballeros, _I'm going to go and make love to the queen."

The mouthful of ale that Alistair had just taken was rapidly ejected across the table. He spluttered out foam and liquid, eyes widening accusatorially as they focused on the elf.

"_Whaa-?!"_

Zevran shrugged an elegant shoulder, lifting his dark gaze languidly to meet the king's.

"Do you have an issue with this, _mi rey?"_

"Flo is _my _wife," Alistair retorted, indignantly. _"I'm_ her husband. _I _get to _make love_ to her."

He held up his hand as if to prove it, showing off the twisted golden strand of the wedding ring.

"Then _be _a husband to her," replied Zevran, equally quick. "The poor girl is desperate for some distraction from the aches and pains of childbearing, and she feels as though you no longer desire her."

Teagan coughed to hide his discomfort, determinedly taking a sip of wine. _She's like your niece, _he thought firmly to himself; attempting to force his affections into a more familial mould. _Alistair calls you uncle; ergo, she's your niece. Family. _

Meanwhile Alistair's jaw had dropped in dismay, his eyes darkening to the shade of bruised apples.

"'No longer _desire _her'?" he breathed, incredulous. "Maker, I still have to remind myself to _breathe _when Flo walks into the room. I just don't want to – to hurt her, or the babies."

"Well, I have no _personal _experience, but I was raised in a brothel," the elf replied, wryly. "Where babies were born every season. Their mothers took clients nearly up to the day of birth itself, with no harm done."

Alistair stood up with ungainly haste, colliding with the table and knocking over several tankards.

"I have to find my wife," he said, horrified at the notion that Flora had thought herself unappealing to him. "I have to bed her, _right now." _

"That's the spirit!" replied Zevran, with a dazzlingly white-toothed smile that was only a fraction forced. "I… I shall reserve my services for another time, then."

Unfortunately, the king soon found that the bedchamber assigned to the Royal couple was conspicuously empty. The bed had been stripped of its sheets, the stool from beside the hearth was missing, as were several other odds and ends. The fire itself had died down to embers, the room bathed in cold, anonymous shadow. Alistair came to an abrupt halt in the doorway as he set eyes on the unoccupied bed; the corners of his mouth turning down with almost comedic rapidity.

"Where – where's Flo?" he said into the gloom, a plaintive note to his tone. "I thought she'd gone to bed. She's not here! Where _is _she?!"

"There's only one entrance to this inn," Teagan hastened to reassure him. "And it was directly behind your left shoulder while we were in the tavern. Nobody passed in or out, Alistair. She's somewhere nearby."

Alistair nodded, reversing back into the corridor and swivelling his head from side to side. The corridor was shrouded and gloomy; a thread of hearth-light creeping from beneath Wynne's door.

Just then, the grey-haired tavern keeper and one of her adolescent sons emerged from a narrow side passage with several bundles of linen and a crate of dirty plates between them.

"Have you seen the queen?" Alistair demanded immediately, striding towards them. "My wife?"

The woman – Myra – shook her head, a crease of bemusement folding itself across her brow.

"I ain't seen her, your majesty," she replied, with a northerner's practicality. "But she'll be here somewhere. No way in or out of this place, save for the front door."

Those gathered in the corridor fell silent for several moments. Simultaneously, there came a brief pause in the wind harassing the window-frames; as the ill weather took a moment to realign itself over the moors. This few seconds of respite allowed them to hear the soft sound of a hoarse male voice, drifting from the far end of the corridor.

"That's my father-in-law," the innkeeper said, startled. "The one dyin' of ale-belly I told you 'bout. Who's he talkin' to?"

Relief suffused Alistair's features; he had a good idea as to the invalid's audience. He led the way down the passage with rapid strides, anxious to find his best friend and take her in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So instead of sexy time with the husband, it's sickly, sweaty, stained-sheets time! Not exactly how Flora envisioned spending her night, but – let's face it – she's been taking care of the sick far longer than she's been sleeping with Alistair; and despite her healing ability being gone, the intrinsic impulse to look after the ill is still very much there. It's part of her general niceness – a way of making up for the lack of brains, wit or sense of humour – poor old Flo isn't the sharpest bait-hook in the tackle-box, but she's very empathetic.
> 
> It was nice to incorporate a bit more of Ferelden's history into the story too! I have to actually read the books one of these days, lol, rather than just relying on DA wikia. I need primary source material! Lol at Flo being like hmmm yes I did hear that there was a Blight, haha
> 
> At least Alistair is aware of his wife's feelings now – got to love Zevran's way of bringing the issue to his attention, hahaha XD


	125. Husband And Wife, Reacquainted

The door at the end of the inn's corridor was slightly ajar, the thin words of a damaged throat creeping out around the jamb.

"We made camp right up in the Hinterlands, lass, near this settlement named the Crossroads. The Orlesians held the village, and we got this plan to seize it back – we were goin' to lure out the _chevaliers_ with a distraction, and then send our men in by the water-mill- "

"How did you distract them?"

Alistair inhaled at the sound of his wife's voice, striding forward and pushing open the door.

The jaundiced veteran on the narrow bed looked up at the new arrival. Sunken eyes widened and he flinched in shock, taking in the broad six foot and several inch frame that dominated the doorway; the handsome, olive features; the traditionally gilded Theirin colouring.

"Maric?" he croaked, the pupils shrinking with disbelief. "King Maric?"

Alistair's gaze moved over the man to his queen, who was perched on a small stool at the invalid's bedside. Flora was clad in socks and crumpled pyjamas, more hair hanging free from her braid than contained within it. The man's scrawny arm rested across her stomach; she was scrubbing at a particularly stubborn patch of dirt on his elbow. The old, sweaty and bile-stained blankets were bundled at the foot of the bed; replaced with linens that Alistair recognised from their own chamber. She looked tired, but was making an effort to listen diligently, biting back her yawn.

"Maric's dead," the dying man corrected himself, awestruck. "But you must be his kin. You're the spit of the man."

"This is King Alistair," his daughter-in-law breathed, mildly perturbed at how her neglect of her sick relative had been so exposed.

The old captain's jaw dropped, a faint cast of shock settling over his jaundiced features.

"_King Alistair,"_ he repeated, in wonder. "Maker's Breath. What're you doin' here? Thought you'd be in the big city celebratin' the end of the Blight."

"We're on progress," Alistair replied softly, his eyes not leaving Flora's rumpled, hunched-over figure. "But I'm _here _to collect my wife."

He had taken in the bowl of water and linen flannels in an instant, had realised what his best friend had spent the past hour doing, and his heart throbbed now almost _painfully_ in his chest.

The dying man's astonished gaze slid from the king to the girl sat at his own side, who was currently eking out foulness from the cracks between his wizened fingers. For the first time, he noticed the bright gold of the ring on Flora's finger, accompanied by a plump, gleaming pearl that was quite evidently worth more than the tavern around them. The final clue to her identity was the Theirin crest sewn onto the breast of the striped pyjamas, though these were now stained and crumpled.

"That's _the queen, _pa!" hissed the tavern-keeper, horrified. _"_You know, _Florence the Fair. _The Hero of Ferelden!"

The man's eyebrows shot into his receded hairline, almost comical surprise writ across his face. Still, he was a northerner, and they tended to recover their equilibrium quickly.

"I saw she was bonny," he said at last, the disbelief raw. "But I didn't – I didn't realise... eh, _yer majesty,_ sorry for chewin' your ear off 'bout the war! You should've put me in my place."

The man stared down at his washed body, the clean sheets, the relit candles and the bowl of soapy water – then swivelled his gaze back across to the girl sitting on the stool. To his disbelief, he saw that she had been made grubby by taking care of him – there were stains of various sorts on the Theirin-crested pyjamas. He did not know what to say, a sudden flush rising to his jaundiced cheeks.

Flora paid no heed to the stains on the fine linen of her pyjamas; in keeping with her old calling as a healer, she had never been bothered by the discharges of a sick body. She shot the dying veteran a rare public smile, feeling one of the infants wriggling drowsily within her stomach.

"Well, the place for a soldier who fought for Ferelden's freedom is a high one," Flora replied, gently. "Thank you for sharing your story with me. I'll look up the service record of the Denerim Sixth when we get back to the city."

_And get someone to read it to me, _she thought to herself. _Since it probably contains lots of complicated words that I can't spell. Like manoeuvre. Or… squodrin. Squidron? Squad iron? _

"I look forward to hearing all about your _squid team,"_ she finished triumphantly, and was met with a bemused stare.

"Excuse us," Alistair said suddenly, not taking his own eyes off her. "My wife needs to rest. And… could we have a fresh bath brought to our room, please?"

He edged around the narrow bed – there was barely any space to move, let alone for a man of Alistair's broad and muscular dimensions – and went to his queen, reaching down a strong hand to support her elbow as she heaved herself to her feet.

While the innkeeper scuttled off to organise the bath, Alistair kept his grip on Flora's arm, his hazel eyes searching her face intently. Flora peered back up at him from beneath several stray strands of hair. Her first instinct was to smile, and then she remembered how he had gently ignored each one of her tentative invitations to bed her.

_And now I'm covered in dried vomit and stale sweat, _she realised, gloomily. _What an alluring sight! What man could resist?!_

Flora dropped her gaze miserably to her feet – or more accurately to her belly, since she had not been able to see her feet in _months_. Alistair, who knew his wife's face better than anybody, could see the embarrassment writ naked across her fine-boned features. He flinched as though somebody had slapped him, horrified at the idea that she thought herself unattractive to him in her childbearing state.

"Oh, my love," he breathed, keeping his hand possessively resting on her elbow. "My sweet and beautiful wife."

The royal couple was not left alone for the next twenty minutes; they were followed by a small crowd back into the guest bedchamber. New sheets were found and made up, the next day's route was clarified with Teagan, and finally, the copper bathtub was brought in once more, filled to the brim with steaming water.

At last the others departed, the door closing in the tavern-keeper's wake. Flora stood before the hearth, still self-conscious in the stained pyjamas, fiddling with the end of her untidy braid. Alistair had gone to the window and drawn the curtains; a strange, determined light illuminating his handsome features.

"Have you heard of the Denerim Sixth?" she asked, impulsively. "The captain and his _squid-team_ did a lot of heroic things in the rebellion."

Although he was only a few metres away, Alistair gave no sign of having heard her. Instead, he crossed the floorboards to stand before Flora, the light from the smouldering hearth warming the handsome, olive skinned features to the shade of steeped tea. As she reached up to unfasten her pyjama shirt, he intercepted her hand with a gentle, yet firm clamping of fingers around her wrist.

"Isn't it a husband's privilege to undress his wife?" he murmured, returning her hand to her side. "You wouldn't deprive me of that pleasure, now, would you?"

His words flowed over her like honey; rich and full of promise. Flora peered up through the foot of thin air between herself and her best friend's purposeful face, feeling a sprig of tentative hope uncurl within her belly. As she shook her head, Alistair circled to stand behind her, close enough that she could feel the hard, muscled torso of his chest against the back of her head. He reached around her, fingers seeking out the buttons of the pyjama shirt; unfastening the stained tunic as reverently as he would a garment cut from raw Nevarran silk.

Inch by inch, he revealed her pregnancy-swollen body, the once-pert breasts now full and rounded, the neatly curved mound of her stomach resting heavily above her hips. Flora caught a glimpse of herself in the dusty full-length mirror and flinched, unable to comprehend how _different _she looked. She had always been a slight girl, slender hipped and flat-bellied; now, her body was unrecognisable.

Alistair felt her shrink, and inhaled in sharp dismay. He removed the pyjama jacket and slid the striped trousers over her thighs, crouching down so that she could rest a hand on his shoulder while stepping out of them.

Once Flora was naked, she shuffled towards the bathtub and then was promptly intercepted by Alistair; who gripped her by the shoulders and steered her purposefully back across to the mirror.

"Oh dear," Flora mumbled with forced cheerfulness, properly eyeing her full-length reflection for the first time since they had left Denerim. "I wouldn't be able to outrun any Darkspawn in this state. Out-_roll _them, maybe."

Alistair was too tall for the mirror, and she could not see his face, just the close proximity of his body as he stood behind her. She could feel his breath rifling the stray strands of hair atop her head; his inhalations were shallow and oddly uneven.

"You never ran from Darkspawn, my love," he murmured, letting his fingers wander down her arm and admiring the contrast between his olive and her fair complexion. "Maker's Breath, your skin is so soft. It feels like cream."

The glum Flora was not convinced, and her expression reflected her dubiousness. Alistair's hand moved to cup her breast, weighing the ripe mound of flesh with an admiring hand.

"You're so gorgeous, Flo. I'm the luckiest man in Thedas."

She was unable to stop herself from letting out a grunt of disbelief. As he pressed tender lips to her ear, Flora reached up to pull several long, dark red ropes of hair over her shoulders in an attempt to distract from her much-changed shape. Alistair promptly moved them back again, nuzzling his face into her neck with a small growl of displeasure.

"Darling, don't you dare try and hide yourself from me."

"But I'm like a body bloated in the ocean for three days," Flora said, with typical northern fatalism. "If I laid down on the sand, someone would assume I had _beached_ myself and would try and push me out to sea!"

Although she was exaggerating for humour's sake, there was a sharp kernel of truth within the words. Alistair turned his wife in his arms, tilting her chin upwards so that she could not look away.

"Sweetheart," he said, very soft and with utter seriousness. "Remember when you used to channel energy from the Fade, and golden light shone from your flesh like a great torch?"

Flora nodded, of course she remembered. She had once stood high on the city walls, blazing away as would a beacon – or _bait – _as the Archdemon winged its way with slow and deadly purpose towards her.

"Well, darling," Alistair continued, quiet and earnest. "That pales in comparison to how you look _right now, _standing before me. I've never seen you look more radiant."

Flora, shy and swollen-bellied, gazed up at her husband with transfixed hope; a sudden, liquid gleam adding lustre to her pale eyes. He caught sight of the unshed tears clinging to her lashes, and reached up to brush them away with a gentle thumb.

The thumb then dropped to Flora's lower lip, lingering there to test the plumpness of her full mouth. She stayed very still, barely daring to breathe; lips slightly parted as he felt their ripe promise.

"There should be poetry written about this gorgeous mouth of yours, baby," her husband said, a hoarse edge to his voice as he forgot to moisten his own dry throat before speaking. "I wish I was creative enough to do it myself."

Flora was relatively certain that the explicit version of _Warden Flora – _an anthem inspired by the legendary bedroom activities of the lady Cousland and the Theirin prince – contained a verse solely dedicated to her mouth. However, she decided that now was probably not the best time to remind him of this.

Instead, she smiled back up at him, feeling his calloused thumb follow the upturned curve of her lip. The king did not smile, but continued to gaze back down at her with Marician intensity; the world outside the door to their chamber now utterly irrelevant. His fingers slid back to cup the side of her face, cradling her cheek against his palm.

Without warning, Alistair drew his former sister-warden close and bent his head over her, closing the foot of air between them in a second as he pressed his lips to hers. It was a deep and uncompromising kiss, its purpose to obliterate any notion that he did not _want _her. When they parted, they were both breathless; eyes bright and cheeks flushed.

"Come on, my love," Alistair said throatily, suddenly remembering the purpose of the bath. "Let's get you clean. My kind and sweet-hearted girl."

He lifted her with an ease granted from collective years of training; Flora put her arms around his neck with sheer relief.

The atmosphere of this bath was wholly different to the one from earlier in the evening. Alistair did not soap his queen's entire head into a vigorous lather; he did not refer to her as _my little sausage; _nor did he bring up the contents of the inn's hand-scrawled menu.

In fact, the king did not speak at all, except to murmur something about his shirt getting wet, which was only an excuse to remove it. Each time he touched his wife was a barely-disguised caress, his fingers leaving faint smears of soap across her breasts, her throat, trailing down her arms. He did not use the jug provided to rinse her, but cupped water in his palm and let it dribble over the fair, augmented curves of her body.

Flora responded to his touch like a neglected Mabari pup, pushing herself clumsily into his caresses and reaching up to stroke the back of his large knuckles with her fingertips. She did not invite him to join her in the bath again – to her slight embarrassment, she realised how _impractical_ this was in her current state – but did not try to disguise her arousal; peering at him through heavy lidded eyes and biting her lower lip.

As Alistair found an excuse to rinse off her breasts for a third time, the edge of his little finger brushed against a hardened nipple. Since the water was pleasantly warm; there was no alternative explanation save for the obvious – his queen was desperate to be bedded.

Reaching down over Flora's shoulders, he cupped both breasts gently and lifted them above the waterline; so that she was faced with the stiff, sensitive evidence of her own arousal.

"Do you need me to relieve your tension, baby?" he murmured in her ear, thumbing her nipple tenderly. "Do you want me to - "

He lowered his voice and breathed something lewd; she went pink but nodded rapidly.

At her eager, wordless agreement, Alistair reached down into the bathtub and lifted his wife into his arms. In a handful of strides he had brought her to the bed, lowering her naked and dripping to the sheets before clambering onto the mattress beside her. She gazed across at him in shy delight, skeins of hair plastered over the full, creamy breasts like ropes of crimson seaweed.

"Tell me, Lo," he murmured, letting his hand drift between her legs. "Is there a Herring story about a fisherman who catches a beautiful sea nymph in his net… and then has sex with her on the beach, from sunset to sunrise?"

"Dunno," Flora croaked, unable to keep her voice steady during the slow, deliberate workings of his fingers. "Doubt it. It's not depressing enough for a northern story. Not unless it ends with a shark eating them both."

"Well, I'm not sure about that last bit," Alistair replied with firm authority, reaching down with a free hand to unbutton his breeches. "But I like the sound of the _first _part. So come on, darling – let's experiment and see what works."

Over the next two hours, the young Theirin took his Cousland bride in all the ways that it was still physically possible to do so. He had her on all fours like a Mabari; from behind while cradling her in his arms; on the edge of the bed with her legs pulled over his shoulders. The sheets were left in a tangle of sweat, bathwater and other fluids, the frame of the bed itself sorely tested.

The frantic creaking of wood advertised well enough what the royal couple were doing, the rhythmic squeaking a reflection of Alistair's determined momentum. Flora had never been shy about vocalising her pleasure; her unashamed cries and moans added fuel to her panting, proud husband's vigorous movements.

Afterwards, the newlyweds lay tangled amidst the damp bedsheets; the king still rocking gently within his queen even as he folded her in a tender embrace.

"How in the name of the Maker could you _ever_ think that I didn't desire you?" he murmured incredulously as he brushed a strand of sweaty hair from her cheek. "I can't keep my hands off you. I've _never _been able to keep my hands off you, my love."

Flora smiled dazedly at him, deliciously sore and satiated. The aches and pains of her body had been temporarily dulled; muted by the aftermath of pleasure.

"I know," she mumbled, scratching at her nose with her eyes half-closed, "Remember when we stayed at South Reach and we used to sneak off in the middle of the day all the time?"

Alistair laughed, low and intimate, reluctant to withdraw from her welcoming heat.

"I remember," he replied, wryly. "Eamon would come looking for a signature and not be able to find me. We'd be in some side-passage, or beneath the staircase."

Flora went pink at the memory, recalling how she had wrapped her legs around his waist as he thrust her hard back against the wall.

"I don't think I could do that anymore," she said, wistfully. "I think it's physically impossible."

"Give it a couple of months, darling," Alistair murmured, finally easing himself out of her. "We'll be swinging from the candelabras again in no time."

He reached back to rearrange the pillows behind him, then settled down with an expectant arm raised. Flora dutifully nestled herself into the crook of his shoulder, feeling him tuck the sheets tightly around her. Their hands met beneath the blanket, fingers instinctively coiling together in the ritual that had first begun in the dreadful aftermath of Ostagar.

"Wake me if you need anything, my love," Alistair breathed in her ear, smoothing Flora's rumpled hair affectionately over the back of her head. "Or even if you don't."

"Herring tomorrow," she whispered back, with a small squirm of excitement. "I can't wait."

Alistair's tender smile became more a contorted, rictus grin; he was grateful that she could not see him from her angle.

"Yes," he said, forcing brightness into his voice. "I, ah – can't wait either."

_Can't wait to leave the place, _he thought, grimly. _And we haven't even set foot there yet._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author: Alistair needs to put his game face on tomorrow, lol! Also, Flo is a numpty– it's SQUADRON, not squid team. Although a battalion of squids on the battlefield would be genuinely terrifying…
> 
> Finally! A bit of lust and thrust, haha! Not to the same extent as the lurid middle chapters of the original, but our poor former Warden is almost eight months up the duff, so she has to be a little restrained, hehehe


	126. On The Herring Road

The sun rose the next morning veiled in morning mists, the moorland also swathed in a thick miasma of sea-mist. The vapour lay thick within the hollows and contours of the land, as pure and unspoiled as fresh-fallen snow. The sun itself was a faint egg-yolk smudge on the eastern horizon; barely discernible behind the mask of cloud.

Teagan, who had risen first, wondered if the inclement weather might delay their journey. Myra the inn keeper had snorted in the face of his concern, promising that the mist would have burnt off by mid-morning.

The smell of freshly scrambled eggs and roasting tomatoes soon summoned the rest of the company. One at a time, they drifted into the tavern with a comment on the thickness of the mists outside.

"Are you looking forward to visiting the hideous little village of Herring, my dear Wynne?" Zevran enquired, adding his own seasoning to the plate of eggs slid before him.

Wynne snorted, shooting the elf a sly look from the corner of her pretty, pale blue eye.

"I'm curious to see the place that so irrevocably moulded our Hero of Ferelden's character," she replied, evenly. "You know how Flora cherishes her _Herring grit. _And yet, I don't think it is a particularly _easy_ place to live. I think its people are hard for good reason."

"A diplomatic answer," murmured Zevran, swirling his peppered eggs with a fork. "I will hold my hands up; I am _not _looking forward to our visit. There's always something peculiar going on in these isolated rural communities."

He broke off abruptly as the royal couple entered from the rear passageway, Alistair's arm slung proudly over his queen's shoulders. Flora had anchored her fingers within the fabric of his tunic, wanting to prolong their contact for as long as possible. Both of them had dark shadows writ beneath bright, tender eyes; elbows colliding in an effort to keep close.

"The young lovers!" the elf announced, a note of slightly forced glee resonating within the words. "All rested up after last night's extensive activities. May I say, Alistair, that your stamina has _much _improved. It seems as though you were well able to keep up with _carina's _voracious little appetite."

Once upon a time, this nature of comment would have made the king blush and hastily change the subject. Now, Alistair flashed the elf an easy smile as he pulled a chair out for Flora; one hand dropping to give her buttock a surreptitious squeeze as he did so.

"I left my wife well-satisfied," he replied, unable to stop from grinning to himself.

"_Sí, _she _sounded_ it," retorted Zevran, who had been in the adjacent room. "You have always sung most beautifully in the bedchamber, _nena."_

Flora smiled back at him, ladling a spoonful of eggs into Alistair's bowl. It was a rare occasion that _herself _and _sung beautifully _were used in the same sentence.

"We're going to Herring today," she reminded her companions, unable to stop the smile from creeping into a wide beam. "Are you all EXCITED?"

Once again, the company were put in a moral quandary: did they tell the truth, which was that they would all prefer to head straight to Highever, or tell a lie to their heavily pregnant and earnest young queen?

"It's going to be an experience, poppet," replied a diplomatic Teagan at last, pushing a steaming tin cup across the table towards her. "Here: peppermint tea. Steeped properly, and _without_ leaves."

Flora shot him a glance from beneath her eyelashes; the bann had clearly been enlightened to his error since the last occasion that he had made her tea.

"Thank you, Bann Teagan," she replied, patting his wrist with her fingers as he slid the cup in her direction. "I appreciate it."

Alistair, meanwhile, had unfolded the map across the table; forking steaming eggs into his mouth with one hand while pointing to the map with the other.

"So Herring is located just here," he said, swallowing and gesturing simultaneously to where a cross had been hastily inked onto the map. "There isn't a route marked that leads to it, but Flo says that we take the Highever road eastwards, then turn northwards at something known as- "

He shot her a small glance to confirm, a faint line creasing across his handsome, olive brow.

"- the '_witch's cauldron'. _Is that right, darling?"

Flora nodded cheerfully, taking a bite of grilled tomato.

"Mm," she mumbled, swallowing at a pointed stare from Wynne before continuing. "You'll know it when you see it."

"Charming," whispered Zevran darkly, as the old mage stifled a snort. "Already, the place sounds _so incredibly welcoming."_

The royal company settled their bill with the innkeeper, who brought out their whole family to see them off – including the jaundice-stricken veteran, who was hunched over in a chair. As Alistair adjusted the saddle positioning – wanting to ensure that it met his own lofty standards – Flora went to the soldier and assured him that she would look up the service records of the Denerim Sixth.

Much of the morning mist had burnt off by the time they set out once more upon the moors; though it still coagulated in pockets of lower ground, and coated the sky in a thick, tangled layer of grey. The topography was beginning to change around them, the moorland gradually working itself into the craggier granite terrain of the Storm Coast. Vegetation began to spring up once again as the sloping ground provided more natural shelter from the wind; fir trees with their branches bent backwards clustered in clumps on the gravelled slopes. The ragged undulation of the moorland had exaggerated itself into cliffs and rocky promontories, very seldom were they now travelling upon a _flat _surface.

At one point, the company paused to check the map at the foot of an exposed granite cliff. Seeing a great subsidence of shingle nearby, Teagan hastily directed them to stand further back.

"It seems that on the northern coast, the _land _wishes to kill you as well as the sea," remarked Zevran, then cackled as he caught sight of Flora pulling a hideous face at him.

Once the correct direction had been ascertained by compass, the company set off once again; passing beneath a rocky archway and through a ragged avenue of fir trees. Sparse patches of sea grass lay scattered here and there, but the main terrain underfoot consisted of gravel, exposed rock or loose shale. The mist grew thicker with each mile they covered, although it seemed content to settle in a thick layer atop the crests of the pines.

Flora had been caught between excitement and apprehension all morning; she had not been back to Herring since being unceremoniously dragged off by Templars five years prior. The little village on the northern coast had shaped her character fundamentally – she had lost count of the number of occasions over the past year where she had forced herself into action with the stern admonition;_ you're a Herring girl. Herring girls have silt in their hearts and salt running in their veins. Just get on with it, whatever needs to be done. _

As a result, she had not been able to sit still on the saddle all morning. Alistair had patiently tolerated her fidgeting and squirms; keeping a firm grip on his restless wife as she quivered with anticipation. On his part, the king was grateful for Flora's preoccupation with her own thoughts – it meant that his own growing qualms could remain hidden.

Just as he was about to take a deep breath and ask Flora about the temperament of her adoptive mother – something that Alistair had been brooding over for the past few days – Zevran cocked his head to the side, brow furrowing.

"Does anyone else hear that?" he asked, glancing suspiciously at the cluster of pine trees surrounding them.

They drew to a halt, the horses shifting impatiently. The elf's hearing was naturally superior, but in the ensuing silence the others were also able to discern an odd noise in the distance. It was a hollow, churning sound; an echoing roar that lingered in the air with a peculiar sense of menace.

"What _is _that?" breathed Alistair, perplexed. "It sounds like – I don't know. I've never heard anything like it.

Unlike the others, Flora's silence was not due to ignorance. Instead, the familiar noise had brought tears to her eyes, for it was a sound that meant she was nearly _home. _

"That's the _witch's cauldron,"_ she whispered, fingers compulsively working a thread loose from the sleeve of her jumper. "It's just up ahead."

Unable to stop herself, she let out a squeak of delight. Alistair, enchanted at hearing such an unusually _vocal _expression of pleasure from his wife, pressed a kiss to the back of her neck as she sat before him on the saddle.

"My sweet mouse-bride," he murmured, nuzzling his nose against her hair. "I don't think I've ever heard you make such a noise before."

"Because we've never been to _Herring _before," Flora replied, immediately. "Are you _twitching_ with excitement?!"

"I… can't describe how I'm feeling, darling," Alistair replied, trying his hardest not to grimace.

"Nauseous," muttered Zevran, although not loud enough for Flora to hear.

The 'witch's cauldron' turned out to be a rounded chasm in the ground, an elongated hollow that descended two hundred feet into ominous darkness. At the foot of this natural well, seawater roiled and swirled; hurling salt spray angrily up the craggy walls. The clamour of water churning within rock had been amplified by the vertical cave and echoed into the surrounding area, a beacon of sound that echoed for a mile in each direction. A half-rotted wooden sign lay toppled nearby, with one broken arm painted with _Highever,_ and the other with _Herring, Skingle._

Near the cauldron, the company let the horses loose to graze on the nearby tufts of sea grass, taking a brief respite to ease the burden of saddle-sore limbs and aching muscles. They sat on the softened grass, sharing out apples and hunks of cheese; their backs turned against the wind.

Zevran slid his whetstone idly up and down a vicious looking blade, his eyes following the progress of unfamiliar birds as they winged their way overhead. Wynne took out her knitting needles and continued working on a half-complete infant sleep suit made of cream wool. Over the past few months, the senior enchanter had knitted a whole winter wardrobe for a single royal baby; after confirmation that there were to be _two _new arrivals in Kingsway, she had picked up the needles once more.

Alistair and Teagan had been pouring over the map once more, trying to decide whether their inked cross marking Herring was in the correct location. Flora had rather vaguely pinpointed it – she had no real idea where _exactly_ it lay – and each map they had purchased showed the village in a different spot.

"My love, do you reckon it's just opposite Kirkwall? Can you ever make out the Marcher _coastli- "_

Alistair roughly amputated his own sentence; nostrils flaring and eyes widening. Flora was hovering on the very edge of the hollowed out cauldron in the rock, dropping chips of gravel into the churning waters below.

"_Flora," _he croaked in a voice approximately eight tones higher than usual. "Flora, come and sit down. I can _feel_ the hair on my head turning grey, darling."

"I used to throw stones down here all the time," Flora said, lost in reminiscence. "I always wondered how deep the water was at the bottom."

"Well, we're not finding out today," Alistair replied firmly, thinking _or ever!_ "Come and sit, sweetheart."

Flora let the last few chips of stone drop from her palm and ambled across to where the others were seated. Alistair reached up a strong arm to intercept her as she made to sit on a tuft of seagrass; drawing her down onto his lap instead. She put an arm around his neck and made herself comfortable within his thighs, face tilted like an unerring compass in the direction of the Waking Sea.

Alistair took a deep breath to calm his speeding heart, then leaned forwards to surreptitiously breathe in the salt-damp scent of her hair; brushing his lips against her ear.

"You can sometimes see the Free Marches coast across the straits," Flora replied in answer to his earlier question, dreamy-eyed with anticipation. "But most of the time, it's too cloudy."

"Is the road to Herring accessible by cart?" Teagan chimed, eyeing their unhelpful mark on the map. "There's no route on here that I can see."

Flora nodded, inhaling another gulp of cool air.

"The fish-merchant comes by twice a week to collect the catch," she said, leaning her head against Alistair's shoulder as he raised a thumb to idly caress the hollows of her throat. "And the Templars must've brought their cage-on-wheels into the village when they caught me. I don't remember being dragged very far before they locked me up in it."

As one who had once been on the other side of this equation, the king flinched; pressing his lips swiftly to her neck in tacit apology. Yet Flora was not unduly bothered by the memory, she was eager to be underway.

"One last question, poppet," Teagan asked, eyeing their bundled up tents and bedrolls in the back of the cart. "Are there any inns or guest-houses in the village? Or… _near_ the village? I'm just considering where we're going to sleep_." _

Zevran almost let out a derisive cackle at the notion of a _guesthouse _within Herring; amused by the notion that anybody would willingly choose to stay there.

"There are only about… _tweleven_ buildings," Flora replied, thoughtfully. "Including the chapel, the fish-store and the smith's. You could always sleep on the floor in people's huts."

Once again, the elf had to bite back amused laughter at the idea that he would sleep at the foot of a stranger's bed. He did not think it worth asking if there were any strapping and muscle-bound fishermen worth propositioning.

"Oh," Flora then piped up, suddenly. "What day is it?"

"Tuesday," replied the bann, rolling up the map and sliding it back into its case.

"We could sleep in the fish-store," she suggested. "The merchant comes to collect the catch on Tuesday mornings, so it'll be empty. They'll have sluiced down the floor to get rid of the scales and guts! The blood-stains don't wash out after a while, but they're nothing to worry about."

There was a stunned silence. Alistair was grateful that his wife's head was tucked beneath his chin, and it was thus physically impossible for her to see his expression.

"Ah," said Teagan eventually, his voice faint. "I… think we'll take the tents, just in case."

"We could camp on the beach," replied Flora, dreamily. "There's only a _slight_ chance of being washed out to sea at this time of year. Or getting stepped on by a giant."

Alistair's eyes bulged in horror. He tightened his grip around both his wife and the precious contents of her belly.

"_Maker's Breath."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: OOOOH how exciting, we're within sight of Herring! Well, exciting for Flora – everyone else is like ARGHHHH NOOOO we don't want to go, haha. Anyway, there's a witch's cauldron cave in Wales – although the one in my story, I envision to be far smaller – more like a dark, circular hole within the ground.
> 
> Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!


	127. Herring

The company took the trail that branched northwards from the witch's cauldron; the landscape growing ever more erratic beneath the hooves of their horses. The dirt underfoot gradually gave way to loose gravel and shingle, intermingled with patches of greyish sand. It was not the buttery, finely milled sand of Denerim's oceanic coast; but a coarse, gritty substance that reflected the dark crags of granite and basalt that erupted from their surroundings.

As the path began to slope downwards, a low rumble in the distance grew increasingly audible. Oddly foreboding; it made the horses' ears flatten against their heads. Flora, when she first heard it, jolted in the saddle as though struck by a mage's lightning spell.

"My love?" Alistair asked immediately, nudging the mare's flank to slow it. "What's wrong?"

_The twins are coming! _he thought wildly to himself, as he did every time that his wife startled. _Oh, shit – they're going to be Herring natives._

"That's the Waking Sea," Flora whispered back, her eyes wide and gleaming with a bright, liquidous sheen. "I haven't heard it in five years. I'd nearly forgotten how it sounds."

Sure enough, the low rumble was the echo of turbulent waves crashing onto the shore or hurling themselves up against cliff-faces. The Waking Sea was the most restless stretch of water on Thedas – and the most dangerous. Every year, several dozen vessels were lost to its avaricious depths; their most famous victim being Maric the Saviour himself. After the old king's ship was lost at sea, the freemen of Ferelden said to each other that there was nothing that the _land _would not do for its liberator – trees would bend and valleys reform at a word from him – but that the wind and the waves owed Maric Theirin no debt, and thus claimed him as they would any other.

Alistair was well aware that this was the sea that had taken the life of his absent father. He reached up with a free hand to touch Flora's face as she leaned her head against his shoulder, feeling dampness on his finger. Leaning forward, the new king rested his chin on his wife's head; rubbing his thumb along the high angle of her cheekbone.

"I can't _wait_ to see Herring," Flora whispered in response, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on the trail ahead. "And my dad. I want to show you _everything_."

Alistair felt a twinge of guilt for his pessimistic outlook on the village that had so fundamentally shaped his best friend's life. Taking a deep breath, he resolved to give Herring a chance, and reserve judgement until after they had arrived.

_You didn't say anything about your adoptive mother, baby, _he thought to himself. _Maker, grant me the ability to keep my composure if this woman is rude to Flo. I've never been able to hold my temper when she's been spoken to poorly before. _

The rumble grew louder even as they approached the cliff, the sky overhead now completely swathed in a thick miasmic veil. Although it was mid-afternoon, there was a strange half-light in the air; a result of the cruel smothering of the sun. The sound of the waves hurling themselves against the rock now seemed to come from directly beneath them.

Just as they were about to mount the cliff, a sea-mist descended swift as a curtain in an Orlesian stage-play. It was damp and dense, and opaque as milk, thick enough to reduce visibility to only a few feet. Teagan called for a halt after a few minutes, aware that the path was treacherous and the cliff-edge near.

"Florence?" he called into the billowing mists over his shoulder. "Will this last long?"

There was a strangled squeak in response, shortly followed by Alistair's clearly identifiable, well-bred tones.

"Flo hasn't been able to speak clearly for an hour, she's so excited. Nod for _yes, _shake for _no, _my love. She's shaking her head, uncle."

"It… it won't last long," added the queen in little more than a tremulous whisper, her voice muffled further by the damp air. "If it comes down quick, it goes quick."

Sure enough, after only a few minutes the mist seemed to melt away into the damp air. For the first time, the lie of the land ahead was revealed.

Spread out before them, carved from crude rock and weathered stone, was the Storm Coast in all its terrible magnificence. The cliffs were jagged and kept in a state of rapid erosion, broken by clusters of rock formations. Hundred-foot tall basalt columns were gathered together, surrounded by lower stepped counterparts. The beach was made up of a sweeping swathe of shingle, littered with broken chunks of the precarious cliffs. It was also littered with the skeletons of ships in various states of decay; from rotten fragments encrusted with barnacles to ominously fresh-looking wreckage.

The sea itself raged and tore at the uneven coastline, lashing itself against rocky islands that rose defiant from the foaming maelstrom. Great sprays of salt-water were flung up for dozens of feet; flecks of sea-foam carried off by a whistling north wind. Even further out - where there was no coastline for the sea to wreak its anger upon - the water seemed to _seethe; _swelling and frothing in a maelstrom of currents. It was a brutal and unforgiving sight, and yet there was a stark beauty to its untamed savagery. It was a landscape not created for human habitation; a battlefield between sea and coast that humans had – for some reason – chosen to huddle upon to make their living.

Flora was wholly lost for words, she trembled on the saddle and stared in stupefaction; her own Waking Sea eyes finally reunited with their real-life counterpart. Tears rolled unrestrained down her cheeks in parallel trails, dripping off her chin and sliding down her throat. Alistair, who was mildly traumatised each time that his wife cried, was murmuring into her ear; yet she could barely understand a word. He could feel her heart racing, the pulse at her wrists throbbing with anticipation. This, after all, was what she had spent four years climbing onto the Circle roof in an attempt to glimpse.

"The sea looks enraged," Zevran observed archly, eyeing the turbulence below. "I can well see why it claims the name _Storm Coast. Nena, _there are people who actually _fish _on that wild creature?"

But _nena _herself was still beyond words, her head swivelling from side to side as seawater flooded her skull; fading memories refreshed with salt-laced vibrancy.

"It's so perfect," she breathed in awe, her fingers clenched tightly into fists. "Isn't it just the most… _the most…"_

The queen trailed off with a tearful hiccup, wiping her nose on her sleeve even as she continued to stare. There came a little squirm from within her stomach and she ignored it completely; gazing transfixed at the raging waterscape.

Teagan, who had crossed the Waking Sea over its calmer western straits, cast a curious eye over the primeval scenes spread out before them. Letting his gaze slip sideways, he could see the parallels between the landscape and its proudest inhabitant. The queen's fine-boned, alabaster face with its perpetual gravity of expression, the sea-water grey eyes that were deceptively cold, the long, rope-like tendrils of tangled hair; all these features seemed mirrored in the wild terrain around them.

The bann realised that the elf was eyeballing him beadily; having spotted Teagan's wistful stare.

"Ah," he said, clearing his throat with a hasty cough. "Petal – _Florence – _which way is Herring? Each of our three maps marks the place in a different location."

Flora roused herself from her dazedness, flailing a finger towards a neighbouring cove, hidden from view by a sharp dip in the landscape.

"It's over there," she whispered, breathless with happiness. "Not- not far."

Despite his trepidation about visiting Herring itself, Alistair was delighted by his wife's transparent joy at seeing the Waking Sea once more. Their travels around Ferelden had been littered with references to it; Flora had always subtly – and not-so-subtly - aligned herself to the northern coast.

_May the Waking Sea take my bones and bleach them if I'm wrong! _

_I'm a Herring girl, we have silt in our hearts and salt in our seawater veins. And it's Waking Sea-water, which is twice as cold as any other!_

_The Amaranthine Ocean is nice, but too flat – it needs to get a bit more energetic. Like the Waking Sea!_

Fortunately, the sudden massing of sea mist appeared to have been an isolated incident. The company followed the cliff-top trail for the next hour, with the churning, dull roar of the sea as a constant backdrop. There was only one road that led into the little village of Herring; a shingle-strewn track that entered the shallow cove at the rear. No signposts pointed towards the settlement, since the few people who ever deigned to visit the village were well-aware of where it was located. The road itself was several hundred years old, used so infrequently that it barely needed maintenance.

This, at least, had been Flora's understanding. As they approached the cove, she was startled to see a number of figures making their way along the trail ahead. The majority of them were on horseback, although there was a small number on foot scattered amidst them. There was also – to her utter shock – several_ carriages _rolling their way carefully along the gravel track.

"Flo," Alistair murmured as they approached the rear of the elongated caravan. "Does Herring host a market?"

"No," she whispered back, her brow creased in confusion. "I don't understand who all of these people are. Why would they be going to Herring? Are they _lost?"_

"A question we all ask ourselves," replied Zevran under his breath, not loud enough for Flora to hear. _"Why, indeed?"_

Teagan shot a glance at Wynne, who returned his unspoken query with a grimace of confusion.

With the cumbersome carts accompanying them, they were not quick enough to catch up with the last riders in the queue. Ahead, the road gradually sloped downwards into a gravelled cove, the village itself still hidden from view. Steep dunes rose to either side, broken with tufts of coarse and bristled sea-grass. The wind blew sand low across the gravel, around the legs of the horses and through the spokes of the cartwheels.

Flora was squirming so vigorously on the saddle before Alistair that he had one arm fully wrapped around her to prevent her from slipping. She had overcome her paralysis after the reunion with the Waking Sea, and had rambled enthusiastically about her home village for the past candle length. Alistair had listened loyally to tedious Herring trivia; touched by his wife's excitement.

Near the entrance to the cove stood a crude wooden stand, wedged between two sand dunes at the side of the road. It had been hastily constructed and looked as though it might fall down at any minute; an affliction shared by the weathered old man hunched behind it.

"Halt," he wheezed as the company approached, lurching up from his three-legged stool. "There's a toll to pay before you enter the village."

"The King of Ferelden can pass where he pleases," retorted one of the guards, immediately. "All roads are open to him."

The old man turned a milky white eye, half-mottled with a cataract, on Alistair's horse. A true northerner, he was not overawed by status or title; but merely let out a grunt.

"The _king,_ eh?"

"I don't mind paying a toll," Alistair called down from his mare, handsome olive brow creasing. "As long as it's a legal one, put in place by Teyrn Fergus Cousland."

There was a pause, during which the old man's gaze slid wildly everywhere but at the king's handsome, intently focused face.

"Fingal?" Flora said after a moment, peering at the man with wide eyes. "It's me. Flora."

The old man turned his rheumy stare on Flora, and had the grace to look a little embarrassed.

"Eh, Pel's lass!" he murmured, recognising her immediately. "Finally come back and paid us a visit then, eh? Took you long enough! Got more important things to do, eh? Made fancier friends?"

Alistair, who was already experiencing a deep sense of foreboding, felt his best friend flinch against his chest at the accusation.

"My wife has been preoccupied for the past year," he replied, a steely note in his tone. "Ending the Blight and killing an Archdemon tends to take up a little time."

Fingal looked disinterested, while simultaneously trying to kick a bag of coins beneath the makeshift wooden counter. From the heavy metallic _clink, _it seemed as though the day had already been profitable.

"Why are you charging people to come into the village?" Flora interjected, wishing that she was in sufficient physical condition to jump down from the horse. "There's never been _any _tax on this road!"

The old man let out a small huff of indignation, shaking his head so that the few clinging strands of grey hair quivered.

"It's _your _fault, lass," he grumbled, prying a loose splinter of wood from the 'counter'. "We've been gettin' a constant stream of visitors – outsiders - for _months. _They all want to see where the _lost Cousland _and _Hero of Ferelden _grew up."

"V-_visitors?" _

Flora blinked, recoiling for the second time in as many minutes. Alistair felt as though he were standing on a high cliff, watching two speeding horses ride towards each other on a narrow path; a disaster imminent and him powerless to prevent it. He gripped his struck-silent queen more tightly about the waist and cleared his throat.

"I won't pay an illegal toll," the king said, reaching into the coinpurse at his waist and withdrawing a few silver coins. "This is a _charitable donation_. I suggest you also consider such a rephrasing of words, while also adding the prefix _optional. _Otherwise – well."

"Extortion is such an ugly word, isn't it?" Zevran chimed in, with steel behind his smile.

"As is _banditry," _added Teagan, who had little patience for swindlers.

Flora was very quiet as they rode further towards the village, a marked contrast to her earlier uncharacteristic excitement. Nobody else spoke much; harbouring their own suspicions as to the nature of what they were about to discover. Alistair, whose heart was beating hard, kept leaning forwards to press his lips to the back of his wife's head.

"I adore you, my lovely Lo," he murmured anxiously against the dark, wine-red richness of her hair. "My sweet girl."

Flora did not say anything in reply, but her fingers sought out the hand he had resting on her stomach, needing the reassurance of their _fish-rope _ritual. The king felt the movement of a child beneath his wrist; tightening his grip on both wife, and her precious burden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: There's a word in Welsh which doesn't have a direct translation in English, called hiraeth. If you ask different Welsh people what it means, you'll get different meanings. Essentially, it's a bit like homesickness, or nostalgia – but for the way things were in the past. It relates to the phrase you can never go 'home' again; because everywhere changes and moves on, in subtle ways, in your absence. It's tattooed on my ankle!
> 
> Anyway, poor old Flo is about to experience that reality – that Herring, rather than being a fixed, unchanging constant, has moved on in her absence. Replying to reviews in the reviews!


	128. You Can’t Go Home Again

Herring itself came into view shortly afterwards. A squat and nondescript huddle of slate-roofed buildings was constructed on a sheet of rock that emerged, turtle-like, from the sand and shale. It was sheltered from much of the wind by the low wings of the cove around it; great angular columns of basalt that seemed unnatural in their uniformity. There were no more than a dozen buildings in total, none higher than a single storey.

A perilous curve of rock stretched out from the shingled beach and submerged itself within the chilly surf. The further the rocks reached, the more prominent its jagged crags and angles, until it resembled a vicious set of teeth rising up from the restless water.

The boats of the fishermen had been dragged above the seaweed-marked tide line; any attempt to anchor them in the shallows would have led to their battering against the rocks. Even within the relatively sheltered aspect of the cove, the water seethed and grumbled; the surface riven by powerful currents.

The scenery itself was nondescript, an entirely normal, if uglier, variant on a standard rural fishing village. It was the _living contents _of Herring that distinguished it from its peers. As the royal company approached, it soon became starkly apparent that this isolated rural hamlet was more crowded than Redcliffe town on a market day.

The Herring locals were easy to discern – they were the ones clad in old wool and stained leathers, their countenances hard and their hair prematurely greyed. There was a lean strength about them like faded but still sharp-toothed wolves; they were a people who lived by the grace of the wind and waves. There were not many of them – less than forty people dwelt within the village – and they were almost hidden from view by the eclectic selection of visitors crowding between the buildings.

The strangers were clad in the fine linens of the merchant classes and low-ranking nobility; mostly cut in a Fereldan style. There were also several Orlesians, clad in their distinctive, lurid fashions, and at least a half-dozen sporting the Marcher double-breasted tunic. Those clad in finer clothing were trailed by servants and baggage mules; augmenting the visitors into what could justifiably be called a _crowd. _

Many of them were wandering around the village, whispering and nudging each other as they pointed out the diminutive stone huts. A handful shuffled dutifully in the wake of a portentous little boy, who seemed to be giving some sort of _tour; _gesturing grandly out to the Hag's Teeth reef with a scrawny arm. Others were gathered at the forefront of ramshackle wooden stands, hastily constructed in the same manner as the fraudulent turnpike.

Such was their fascination with the grim little fishing village; the tourists did not notice the arrival of the royal guests. The company were able to leave their carts and horses at the edge of the village without drawing attention to themselves; hidden from the huddle of buildings by a convenient sand dune.

Flora, who only a short while ago had been so excited that she could not sit still on the saddle, was very quiet. The confusion on her face was ceding inch by inch to despondency, her pale, Waking Sea gaze restless as its namesake. She had not loosened her grip on Alistair's fingers; he had dismounted awkwardly with their grasp still intact.

Now the king stood on the coarse grit, the salt-edged wind ruffling his hair and his wife's hand clutched firmly in his own. The others had dismounted quietly and without conversation; looking between the miserable Flora and the tourist attraction that had once been her beloved home.

"Alistair," said Teagan softly, lowering his voice further as he approached. "The captain has suggested that these – these _visitors _be moved on before you make your presence known. If they learn that the Hero of Ferelden herself is _here, _they might get a little… overexcited."

Alistair gave a tight nod, jaw taut and unamused. His thumb moved constantly over Flora's small knuckles, rubbing in repetitive circles of reassurance.

"Do it."

The guards ventured into the village to clear out the crowds, Zevran accompanying them to emphasise the _necessity _of the crowd's rapid dispersal. Aware that there was only one road out of the village, the king led his wife further behind the sand-dune; masking them from curious eyes.

"That's where the Templar fell off his horse," Flora said at last in a small voice, gesturing with her free hand towards an innocuous patch of sand. "He broke his back in half. I fixed it."

Behind the dune, they could hear the sounds of the visitors leaving, chattering to each other in several varieties of tongue. They did not seem to be paying any heed to Teagan and Wynne, who were still waiting at the side of the road. The clouds were beginning to mass overhead; the muted light of late summer gradually fading into a pre-dusk murkiness. The threat of drizzle hung in the air, a faint tinge of saltwater lacing each inhalation.

Alistair put his arm about Flora's shoulders, standing within the hollow of the sand dune in a rare moment of privacy. He drew her to his side and pressed his lips to the top of her head, brow creased with anxiety.

"Sweetheart, it's… it's still Herring. Even with the _tourists _swarming it like flies_. _I'm looking forward to _you _giving me the proper tour."

"I want to see my dad," she replied at last, brightening slightly. "He'll explain what… what all _this _is about."

Alistair nodded, keeping her hand grasped tightly within his own.

A short while later, once the last of the nosy visitors had been cleared out, the royal company ventured into the village itself. Herring was no more appealing at close proximity than it had been at a distance – it was a settlement built for durability rather than aesthetic. Coarse sand blew constantly across the rocky ground, gathering in piles against the walls of the buildings. Fishing apparatus was strewn everywhere – a half-mended boat was upside-down between two huts; barnacle-encrusted fishing nets were piled in a tangle near the tiny Chantry; rods leaned up against ramshackle walls. An old man sat on an upturned bucket and painstakingly bent hooks back into shape with an improvised tool. Two hundred yards down the beach, the receding sea churned itself into a furious, foaming froth, increasingly bitter with each inch yielded to the shore.

The Herring locals viewed the approaching royal party with naked suspicion; their faces contorting in as much astonishment as northern stoicism would allow as they set eyes on Flora. Several of the men had seen her in Denerim when they had been conscripted to fight in the final battle, yet to see her _here _– back in the village itself – was no small shock. Their gazes slid first to her, and then to the makeshift wooden stands, then dropped to the ground.

The little boy who had been showing the visitors around had no such embarrassment. He must only have been seven or eight – too young to remember that the queen had been a Herring local – and approached the royal company without hesitation.

"Me lords an' ladies!" he squeaked, while the Herring natives shuffled, shifty-eyed. "May I interest you in one of our best-sellin' products?"

Zevran, who recognised an element of his own younger self in the boldness of the child, stifled a smile. Flora, meanwhile, was still silent and bewildered; clutching onto Alistair's hand as though it were a life-rope.

"What are you selling, lad?" Teagan asked eventually, sensing that the king was wholly distracted by his wife's turmoil.

The little boy scuttled over to the makeshift stands, retrieving a variety of items. Returning, he held each up as though it were a necklace of Antivan gold; raising his voice proudly.

"First: a strand of _Hero's Hair. _Just like the hair of our own homegrown Herring hero: the lady Flora! Only fifty silver a piece."

He held up a long strand of dark red seaweed, a thick and rubbery ribbon that brushed the sand at their feet. It was indeed remarkably similar in shade to the queen's oxblood hair; which was currently bundled in an untidy braid.

"Fifty silver for a piece of seaweed?" Wynne enquired, her eyebrows shooting into her hairline. "Are people actually paying these prices, boy?"

"It's one of top-sellin' products, old madam," retorted the child, with northern bluntness. _"Here's _our best-seller – only one gold coin!"

The boy held up a small glass bottle, stoppered with a plug of wood and filled with gravel.

"Real, au- _aufentic 'Herring Grit!" _he declared, triumphantly. "What the lady Flora drew upon in battle to kill the evil dragon. Now _you too _can have some _Herring Grit _for yourselves! Any takers? Eh?"

Flora was struck into an appalled silence at the commercialisation of her own hard-won endeavours. Fingal, the old man who had attempted to charge an entrance fee into the village, decided that enough was enough and sidled forwards.

"Welcome back to the village, lass," he muttered, giving the boy a swift kick to get him out of the way. "Get back with yeh, idiot. That's the lady Flora _herself." _

The little boy gawped. Alistair scowled both at the mistreatment of the boy and the exploitation of his wife's Herring connection. The drizzle was starting to increase in density now; mottling the surface of the water and pattering against the slate roofs of the huts.

"What's going on, Fingal?" Flora croaked eventually, clutching her husband's hand in a death-grip. "Why are you – doing all _this? _And where's my dad?"

"Pel's gone t'Skingle to trade for some new tools," replied the old man, tugging at the thinning strands of his grey beard. "Should be back tomorrer. An' – an' all this… well. It were the idea of your own ma, lass."

Flora hunched her shoulders in quiet dismay, although she was not surprised.

"Do people actually buy this stuff at these extortionate prices?" Teagan asked, astonished. "Bits of weed and dirt?"

"It ain't just _dirt!" _piped up the boy, indignant. "It's _Herring Grit; _that what got the lady Flora through the toughest of times!"

Flora looked at the bottles of grit lined up on the rotted wooden board that served as a counter, utterly confused. So far, her return to Herring had not followed any variant of her own imaginings. She had not wanted to be received as a hero (a nightmarish and unlikely scenario, considering the northern temperament) but she had expected that Herring would be _exactly _as she had left it, five years prior. The memory of her home had been preserved in salt within her own mind for half a decade – sacrosanct and eternal – and now she was confronted with an entirely contradictory reality. It was a rude and brutal awakening, and she did not quite know how to react to it.

Alistair felt his wife's hand, small and cold, against his own palm. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to put her back on the saddle, clamber up behind her and ride the twenty miles to Highever in a single night.

Yet instead he put on a brave face, squeezing her fingers and forcing a smile.

"How very… enterprising! I admit, I wasn't expecting Herring to be full of commercial geniuses. It must be a nice boost to the village's income."

Teagan, who was relatively certain that the occupants of the village were not paying any tax on this additional revenue, let out a wry snort.

Flora swallowed, casting an anxious glance towards the restless, receding sea. The drizzle was now a thin, persistent downpour; the sort of precipitation characteristic of the northern coast. It did not feel especially heavy, yet managed to saturate hair and soak through layers of clothing in a surprisingly short amount of time.

"Is my – my mother here?" she asked, the word sounding odd in her mouth now that she knew the truth about her parentage.

"Aye. Either in the chapel, or your old 'ouse, lass. One o' the two."

As he replied, he glanced in the direction of a slate-tiled, stone-walled hut. The wind had made a concerted effort to dwarf the building in sand; piles of coarse, grey grit lay up against the wall. Flora followed his gesture towards the hut, a flicker of emotion disturbing her usual composure as she gazed upon the home of her childhood.

Alistair, Teagan, Wynne and Zevran also stared at the nondescript fisherman's dwelling, which was somewhat more than a shack and yet not refined enough to be named a _cottage. _They were each curious to see where their young queen had grown up; simultaneously, they were uncomfortably aware that Flora herself was in the throes of mild distress. The elf nursed an additional concern – he was also aware of Flora's conflicted attitude towards her adoptive mother.

Now, Flora looked at the salt-encrusted door leading to her childhood home; frozen to the spot.

"Are you _sure _she's the Hero of Ferelden, uncle?" the little boy whispered conspicuously, his dubious gaze on the queen. "She's about to drop a baby, and she seems a bit… a bit _slow in the head. _And she's _short."_

"You ain't wrong there, Jan," commented a dry voice, hoarse enough that the gender of its owner was not discernible. "The girl's always had naught but seawater and flotsam between the ears."

Flora went rigid, her fingers tightening reflexively around Alistair's own. The king himself bristled reflexively at the insult to his wife, turning to face the new arrival.

The voice belonged to a tall woman, lean and strong as a blade, bound with sinew and her iron-grey hair shorn raggedly above her shoulders. Her skin was weathered, ageing her a decade; yet the coal-dark eyes set close to her nose were shrewd and clever. She was long-limbed – she must have stood taller than Flora's adopted father – and her hands were red and raw from prolonged immersion in saltwater.

Flora took a deep breath, having been turned around with Alistair due to their linked hands. It took her a moment to gather her composure and corral her words; even more nervous than she had been before addressing the Landsmeet on that final, crucial day before the vote.

"Hello, ma," she breathed, at a loss for how else to assess the scowling woman. "I'm back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: This was genuinely one of my favourite chapters to write! Although it's not been a particularly enjoyable experience for Flo so far. I wanted to put a new and unexpected angle on her homecoming!


	129. Flora’s Family

Nobody in the royal company was impressed with the woman's frosty greeting of her adopted daughter. Alistair bridled like a roused Mabari, Zevran narrowed his eyes to dark, glittering slits and Wynne's expression settled into one as cold as the Waking Sea.

"I can see that '_you're back'_, _girl,_" retorted Flora's foster-mother, folding her arms across her chest. "You always did like statin' the obvious. I see you've spread your legs for someone _important_. Well done: you're sorted for the next two decades."

This was clearly in response to Flora's swollen stomach. There was a stony silence from the rest of the queen's companions; none of whom knew quite how to respond. Alistair himself was now trembling with the effort to keep his fury from crashing across the shingle like the incoming tide; outraged at both the insult to his best friend's intelligence and the implication that she had done naught of significance save for jumping into bed with a prince.

"My wife is the Hero of Ferelden," he said, the words emerging laced with tight-lipped anger. "All the land owes her the greatest of debts. You've been selling all this… _paraphernalia_ based on her achievements, so you must be aware of the great things that she's accomplished."

"Aye," chimed in Teagan, coming to the king's assistance. "Florence slew the Archdemon and ended the Blight. She gathered armies from across the land and defended Denerim against the Darkspawn horde."

Gerda shot the bann a scowl from the corner of her small, clever eye, fingers busy unravelling a knotted fishing line as she stood before them. Herring natives had a habit of constant movement even when they were stationary – Flora tended to pluck at loose threads of her clothing, or wind strands of hair around a finger.

"I don't give a bent hook about what she's supposed to 'ave done," the burly woman retorted, her northern bluntness now bordering on open insolence. "And it ain't no surprise that she were able to _beguile_ men across the country into supportin' her. _Flirted_ her way across Ferelden, eh?"

"I didn't beg- _beggle – beg-weel _them," Flora replied glumly, thinking of First Enchanter Irving and Lord Harrowmont of Orzammer. "Or flirt."

Gerda was clearly not listening, continuing to speak as though Flora had never opened her mouth.

"But if fancy visitors and travellers want to stop here and see where _'the lady Florence' _grew up – then I'm goin' to make some silver off them."

The woman curled her lip towards her adoptive daughter, tucking the untangled fishing line back into the pocket of her stained woollen tunic.

"Surely you ain't _angered _at us makin' a bit of extra coin, lass?" she demanded, her eyes hard and flinty on the unhappy queen. "Herring's barely got two limpets to rub together. And, since _you_ got yourself taken, we lose more souls to disease and wreckers each year. Profits've been right down. We barely have enough to eat."

Flora shook her head mutedly, grateful for the death-grip of Alistair's fingers clamped around hers. His thumb was stroking each of her knuckles in firm, reassuring circles; a constant reminder of his presence at his side.

"I- I ain't… I'm _not_ angry," she whispered, slipping momentarily back into the vernacular of the north. "I just wasn't expecting… all those people."

The woman stared unblinking at her daughter. For a single moment, Zevran was reminded of an old, starving shark, worn and weathered, yet still dangerous. The elf had been watching Gerda without pause for the past few minutes; letting the woman's bitter words flow over him while focusing on her unspoken mannerisms. There was a strange light to the deep-set eyes; a twitching of the fingertips; a quiver of the nerve in the throat – when combined, these signs created a disturbing picture.

"I think the woman is half-mad," Zevran murmured to Wynne, who stood in taut disapproval at his side. "Perhaps two-thirds. Let's not leave our _florita _alone with her."

Flora, meanwhile, was gazing stoically forward. She was trying her hardest not to cry – aware that this would be the _worst possible thing _to do in front of her mother.

Gerda brought the fishing line out of her pocket once again, and began to work it through her fingers. This time, her purpose was not to untangle the line – but to knot it back up.

The light had almost left the day, the sun sinking mutedly behind a veil of cloud. By now, the tide had receded out into the straits, leaving behind a vast swathe of mottled sand. The children of Herring were already wandering the coarse grit with buckets in hand, looking for crabs left in the wake of the water. They were barefoot - shoes were only for those going out on the boats - and scrawny in frame; their figures like dark matchsticks against the fading ochre light. The recession of the water made the village seem even more desolate, the bare bones of the landscape exposed to the eye.

" 'Spose you want to wait 'ere until Pel gets back," Gerda said suddenly, having knotted the line back up into a snarled mess. "You can come inside. Help me wi' the dinner."

The weathered fingers began to work once more at the fishing line, untangling it with the efficiency of long-practice. This time, Alistair too noticed the woman's compulsive gesture, his nostrils flaring. He drew Flora a fraction closer to his side, inwardly determined not to release her for the duration of their – hopefully _very brief _– stay in hideous Herring.

Gerda turned and began to stride towards the nondescript stone dwelling that Flora had glanced towards earlier. Alistair paused for a moment before following her, keeping his wife firmly at his hip with a strong grip. Their companions trailed in their wake, Zevran hissed frantically at a grim-faced Wynne.

_This woman is a monster! _he mouthed, eyebrows wedged into his hairline. _Mad as a bucket of crabs, as our sirenita would say. _

Just before they reached the rotting, iron-bracketed strips of wood that served as a door, the woman shot Flora a smile bright with genuine affection over her shoulder. Alistair allowed himself a flicker of hope, seeing the sudden surge of tenderness in Gerda's dark eyes.

"I wager you're lookin' forward to seein' your brother again, girl," she announced, reaching towards the rusting handle. "He'll be grateful of some company for dinner."

Flora flinched as though she had been struck. Alistair, astonished, blinked down at his wife. He distinctly remembered her mentioning that her Herring parents had once had a son; who had drowned shortly before Pel took in Flora.

Yet she offered no word of explanation now, an expression of grim resignation settling across her face as Gerda shoved open the ill-fitting door.

The fisherman's dwelling consisted of one large room, with a smoking hearth at one end and an elevated wooden platform at the other. There was a motley collection of furniture clustered around the walls – from its eclectic appearance, it appeared to have been salvaged from wreckage. A rectangular table was attended by a mismatching set of chairs and stools; a wardrobe missing a door stood in a corner. A half-mended fishing net was draped over a brass-bound chest. The room smelt of hearth-smoke, and the pungent resin used to proof wood against rot, though there was also a distinct undertone of mildew. There was no window, the interior space was lit by a dozen greasy candles wedged in bottles and placed on assorted flat surfaces.

Yet the royal company did not notice the faint smell of mould, nor the general decrepitude of the dwelling. Their attention was focused on the salt-stained table, where something utterly macabre took pride of place at the far end.

A skeleton had been positioned on the best chair – the one with an intact back and arms – and posed as though it were sitting. Since it was little more than bleached bones, this feat had been achieved through the application of iron brackets and knotted rope. The skull was fixed slightly crooked atop the spine with a lump of dried resin; the jaw hung loose in a terrible grin. A few strands of straw-like hair still clung stubbornly to the cracked cranium. It was clad in a threadbare jumper, one sleeve almost entirely eaten away by moths. One of its hands rested on the table, fixed there with an iron bracket. A brass ring hung loose from the smallest finger-bone.

"Look who it is, Tobias," Flora's adoptive mother breathed, tucking away her tangled fishing line and hurrying to the skeleton's side. "It's the girl, back again. Thought she'd got too high an' mighty to remember us."

As they watched in appalled fascination, Gerda used her sleeve to tenderly brush a cobweb from within the skeleton's hollow ribcage.

"Maker's Breath," croaked Teagan, the freckles on his nose standing out stark as he went a full shade paler. _"Maker. What in the void- "_

"It is like something from an Antivan tale used to scare children," Zevran murmured, his gaze sliding sideways to where Flora was standing sadly at Alistair's side.

"Girl, did you miss your brother?" Gerda called over her shoulder, heading towards the door-less cupboard. "I ain't been able to keep him as clean as when you was here."

The woman turned around with an assortment of dented tin plates in her hands and a bright smile curving across her weathered face.

"Her little fingers were perfect for gettin' right into the _nooks and crannies._ Right, where's them pickled mackerel I put in a jar? Lass, come and help me serve! The rest o' youse, take a seat."

This command was barked across the room; Flora responded so hastily that she almost stumbled over her own feet. Her companions seated themselves around the table, unable to stop staring at the ghastly apparition presiding at its head. The situation was so peculiar that they felt disorientated and entirely unsure how to respond to it. Zevran fingered the hilt of his blade compulsively, resolving not to act over-hasty.

A grim-faced Alistair made an urgent gesture towards his uncle and Teagan immediately drew his chair closer; wincing at the scrape across the uneven flagstones. The two men conferred in a hurried whisper, their exchange disguised by the clattering of plates.

"This place is a fucking _nightmare,_ uncle_," _the king hissed, resorting to rare profanity. "That woman is deranged. I need to get my wife away from here."

"I hope you weren't expectin' nothing fancy," Gerda said with a vague hint of menace as she brought over the tin plates, dumping them unceremoniously on the table. "I ain't got aught else except the briny fish."

The company watched in appalled fascination as the plate with largest pickled mackerel was placed before the mortal remains. Gerda leaned forward and pressed her lips against the skull's fragmentary remains of hair before taking a seat.

There were no utensils to speak of, save for a selection of bent tin spoons. The Herring native picked up her fish by its tail – which, along with the fins and eyeballs, had not been removed – and began to crunch it methodically between her teeth. Zevran, who had been ready to inquire delicately about their skeletal host, went faintly green about the gills.

Underneath the table, the king was clutching his queen's hand in a death grip; his thumb rubbing further reassurance into her knuckles. Her fingers felt cold and clammy, although he was not sure how much warmer his own hand was in comparison. Everything within Herring felt as though it were covered with a fine layer of mildew; people included.

"So, I hear you ain't got your magic no more," Gerda said, her shrewd gaze settling on her miserable former daughter. "Pity, that – it were the only useful thing about you, lass."

Flora stared down at the beady, black eye of her untouched mackerel. For the first time in her life, she did not feel like eating fish.

"Flora has _many _skills, actually," retorted Alistair, far more rudely than he usually allowed himself to be in public. "She's good at lots of things. Too many to name."

"Aye, like sproutin' a babe in her belly," Gerda muttered, her derision accompanied by a snort. "The girl's got nothin' but flotsam and jetsam between her ears. I always _told _her she'd end up as some noble's bedwarmer."

Zevran opened his mouth to snarl, then was elbowed swiftly in the ribs by a grim-faced Wynne. Flora continued to stare down at her plate, and to her horror, felt dampness prickling on her lashes.

_Don't you dare, _she thought fiercely to herself. _No, no, no. _

Alistair dropped his spoon with a clatter on his plate, the storm clouds now descending dark and menacing across his handsome features. It was clear that he was teetering on some precarious edge; that there was a great, angry bellow brewing within his chest that he had only suppressed out of respect for his wife. Yet it was abundantly clear to those around him that he would not be able to restrain himself for much longer, a vein pulsing hard in the sinew of his throat.

"Florence – _Flora _has done so well over the past year," Teagan said instead, with some difficulty. "She's astounded us all. You should be proud of her."

Yet, Gerda was not properly listening. She was fussing over the skeletal remains of her son, changing the angle of its bracketed wrist and inserting a rusted spoon clumsily between its fingers.

"You ain't ate much, dear," she reprimanded, sternly. "Is it _her _bein' back? Has the girl spoiled your appetite? Should've made her eat out back as usual, eh."

There was a tearful hiccup from the '_her' _in question, a sound which drew the attention of everybody. Flora, ashamed of her own wet cheeks, put her hands over her face.

Gerda's own face contorted in shock, horror and finally _disgust; _her nostrils flaring and her lip curling.

"Are you – are you _crying?!" _she breathed, sheer revulsion dripping from each word. "Ugh! You've gone _soft, _girl."

"_ENOUGH!" _

Alistair's chair was launched backwards, the entire table lurching as he thrust himself upwards to his full lofty height; the legendary Theirin presence billowing outwards like a ship in sail to fill the entirety of the room. His anger crackled as would some electrical discharge of a Waking Sea storm. He was an olive and gilt brand scorching away the mildewed gloom; terrible and yet magnificent.

They all turned their heads to stare at him - a wet-eyed Flora included - temporarily shocked out of her own sadness. The king reached out to reclaim her hand, winding their fingers together in the familiar ritual before helping her upright.

"We'll wait for your dad somewhere else, my love," he said softly, ignoring everyone else in the room and dabbing the edge of his sleeve to her cheeks. "Come on."

Flora let herself be led towards the door as her companions also got up to leave.

Pausing at the threshold, Alistair turned cold eyes on the tall, iron-haired woman who still sat motionless beside the corpse of her son.

"You don't _deserve_ my wife's presence," he said bluntly, with a vein of hardened contempt. "So sell your seaweed and bits of rock, because it's all you'll ever have of her."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Arrrrgh, creepy! I wanted to give a bit of Gothic fantasy elements here, with the remains of the son propped up at the dinner table for one and a half decades. No wonder Flora never quailed at death - or morbidity in general - as a healer... she grew up sharing a table with rotting remains! Also, yay for Alistair coming to his wife’s defence.
> 
> In totally unrelated news: my daughter is 6 months old today! I love her so much it hurts T_T like I never understood what the phrase loving someone more each day meant until I had her <3 <3


	130. The Queen In Distress

At the hut's doorway, the royal couple nearly collided with the guards and Ser Gilmore, who had swarmed the fisherman's cottage on hearing Alistair's bellow. They scattered before the fuming king, who strode from the lopsided doorway with a face like thunder and his sniffling queen tucked beneath his arm.

Alistair did not stop until they were past the seaweed-covered rocks that marked the boundary of Herring. Finally, he drew to a halt amidst the low sand-dunes at the base of the low basalt cliffs. The sky was streaked with apricot and ochre, and threaded with ominous veins of rich crimson, a portent of future downpours. Fortunately, the drizzle had momentarily ceased; it was cool, but not excessively windy. He could feel his best friend flagging, her body sinking beneath the weight of her own emotion. Not wanting Flora to stumble, he steered her down onto the coarse, tawny sand; crouching and reaching out to cup her face between her palms.

"Sweetheart, my love, please don't cry- "

But his wife was caught in the terrible realisation that the Herring she had shaped in her own mind – a sanctuary in the midst of the Circle and then the Blight – bore no resemblance to the Herring of the present day. Flora did not know whether the village had simply _changed_ over the past half-decade, or if her spirits had moulded the memories of her home in order to both comfort and strengthen her as required for their own purposes.

_Or perhaps it's me, _she thought wildly to herself, barely paying heed to her increasingly agitated husband as tears streamed down her cheeks. _Now that I know I'm a Cousland, perhaps I've changed – changed so that I don't belong in Herring anymore!_

Flora's other companions arrived a moment later, conversing in appalled, hushed whispers about the dreadful scenes within the fisherman's hut.

"It's obvious that the woman was driven mad by the death of her son," Wynne murmured, picking her way delicately over the coarse sand. "It's sad, in a way. She's not in her right mind."

"It's more sad how she treated our _carina," _retorted an indignant Zevran, who was so outraged that he temporarily forgot to complain about the northern climate. "Do you think that skeleton has been sat there for _fifteen years?"_

Teagan gave a half-nod, his eyes fixed on where the king was frantically trying to mop up his sobbing wife. He was not having much luck; the tears were now accompanied by hoarse, heartbroken little croaks.

"Can I do anything to help?" the bann offered, coming to a halt beside a tuft of sea grass.

"Could you find out from someone how long it takes to get back from Skingle?" Alistair replied, thinking of Flora's absent father. "And if there's anywhere we can stay tonight – _not _in that blasted tomb of a hut."

Teagan nodded, dropping a hand to Flora's shoulder and giving it a quick squeeze before striding off towards the silhouetted huts.

Zevran and Wynne positioned themselves on either side of Flora; the latter grimacing as she eased herself down onto the side of the dune. Alistair had drawn his wife into his arms while he murmured into her ear, his own heart racing in dismay.

Flora was not listening. She paid no heed to his tender words, nor the rhythmic stroke of Zevran's thumb down the length of her spine; oblivious to everything but the raw sting of her own sadness.

_Herring's not like I remembered it. _

_My dad's not here. Mama still hates me. _

_All I wanted for years was to come home; but now that I have, it doesn't feel like home anymore. _

She let out a keen of distress, a _halla _struck with a hunter's arrow, and wrapped her fingers in Alistair's tunic, sinking her brow against his shoulder. Her husband flinched at the sound of her despair; each sob a sly dagger between the ribs.

"My love," he pleaded with her. "My sweet wife."

The keening deteriorated into a wail, muffled against the damp fabric of his tunic.

"Alistair, she needs to calm down," Wynne murmured quietly, her pale blue eyes soft with sympathy. "These hysterics could send her into premature labour. I mean, just over eight months – the babes would survive, but these are hardly ideal circumstances for a birth."

Alistair blanched, gripping onto his wife more tightly. Flora clung onto him in return, her breath coming in shallow gasps, the salt of her tears stinging her eyes. Fortunately, the king had become practised in the soothing of his wife over the duration of the progress. Although these tears were caused by external distress rather than emotional imbalance; the principles of calming her down were the same. In addition to this, the former Wardens were used to comforting each other during the darkest nights of the Blight, each knew the best and most effective ways of consoling the other.

Now, Alistair ran his hand through her hair, gentle and rhythmic, letting the thick, oxblood strands slip between his fingers like loosened ropes. He could feel his wife's body slacken against him as she exhaled; some of the tension draining from her unhappy frame.

"Good girl," he breathed into her ear, shifting position on the sandy dune to accommodate her on his thighs. "There we go, my beauty."

With the help of his hand spread firm across her breast, Flora's breathing eased from the gulps of a drowning man to a more even rhythm. Alistair could feel her panicked heartbeat begin to slow beneath his palm, and let out a sigh of soft relief.

_She'll never want to come back to Herring again, _the king thought suddenly to himself, feeling a small twist of joy in his belly._ She'll stay with me in Denerim, now. I won't need to worry about losing her to the pull of the north._

The next moment, Alistair felt a lurch of guilt, pressing a fierce kiss to his wife's small ear to make up for the selfishness of this thought.

Around them, night was drawing in with a merciless swiftness that it did not display in the more benevolent east; the light draining with each minute they spent out on the sand. The sea - despite being a tidal league further out in the straits – seethed in relentless turmoil; furious at being temporarily deprived of a coastline to wreak its fury upon.

The Antivan elf shivered, pulling his tunic tighter around him.

"I do not like the north," he murmured to Wynne, who let out a wry snort in response. "It is bleak and unforgiving, much like the people who live in it. I thought that the people here would give _mi sirenita _a hero's welcome. Since she has _literally _put their village on the map. Nobody had heard of Herring, before her."

"I am aware, Zevran."

"I've seen more welcoming faces in a rival assassins' guild headquarters! And I speak from _experience."_

The guards shifted, spotting a figure approach from the village. Teagan was making good progress over the unstable surface towards them, his boots sinking part into the sand with each step.

"There's a small cave just around the headland," he called, nearly tripping over a crab that scuttled unexpectedly from a clump of seaweed. "It's above the tideline. I'd say it's a better call than the tents, especially if this wind keeps up."

"Oh, I imagine that it _will_ keep up," muttered Zevran, casting a resentful eye at the massing clouds. "In fact, I would be surprised if it were _not _gale force winds and torrential downpours later. Herring seems like that sort of place, _como saben." _

Alistair nodded, easing a drooping Flora off his lap and clambering to his feet. Brushing the sand from his breeches, he reached down and lifted his sniffling wife into his arms with only the slightest grunt of effort.

"Right," he snapped, still tense and unhappy at his queen's distress. "Let's find this bloody cave."

The cave turned out to be the only part of Herring that was not a _let-down_ in some way. It was tucked behind a jutting spur of rock that protected the narrow entrance from the constant turbulence of the air. The main chamber extended back fifty yards, shrinking into a slender passage blocked by rockfall. The cave had clearly been used as accommodation in the past; black soot marked the walls where fires had been set. The sand underfoot was dry and finer than the gritty coarseness of the beach; it would make for a relatively comfortable surface to sleep on.

The scouts had already gathered driftwood for a fire, which Ser Gilmore now assisted them with constructing. The guards brought the bedrolls and packs from the cart, setting up their own sleeping area across the entrance to the cave.

Too impatient to wait for the fire, Wynne had ignited an arcane flame within a spare lantern. As she added a few more inches to her letter to Irving, the lantern hovered helpfully beside her shoulder. After only a few minutes had passed, she had fallen asleep over the long roll of parchment; a blanket over her shoulders and a strand of white hair trailing from her bun.

"The locals tell me that Pelegrin should be back by morning," Teagan informed Alistair as the others settled themselves near the fire. "They've assured me that they'll let him know where we are when he arrives."

When Alistair shot him a dubious look, Teagan let out a humourless snort.

"Aye, lad. I'll go over there in the morning and find the man myself."

"Thanks, uncle," the king replied distractedly, his attention focused on his miserable wife.

Flora was hunched at his side, huddled beneath his arm with her head bowed over her stomach. Tears ran over her cheeks, slid over her chin and down the hollow of her throat. If someone had asked her _why _she was crying – and she was coherent enough to respond – she would not quite know what to say. It was an odd combination of her mother's hostility, her body's imbalance, the presence of _tourists _within Herring; most strongly, it was the realisation that the 'beloved home' she had drawn strength from for the past five years was irrevocably changed. Alistair was trying his hardest to soothe her the best he could, his fingers clutching hers tightly in their old ritual as he kissed and stroked her hair.

Nobody spoke much as they set out their bedding, their eyes returning over and over to the miserable queen. Although Flora bursting into tears had been a recurrent theme during the progress, this was not typical of the usual melodramatics. They were all aware of how much Flora had been looking forward to this part of their journey – every man present had experienced at least three of her gushing Herring monologues over the past two months. Now her distress was palpable; the tears borne from genuine dismay as well as hormonal fluctuation.

Teagan gripped Alistair's shoulder as he passed the royal couple to retrieve a whetstone from his pack; aware that the young man he saw as a nephew was suffering too. The king tore his gaze from Flora's tear-stained face to shoot agonised eyes up at his uncle.

"I can't bear this," he muttered, clutching the back of his wife's neck as she dropped her head to his shoulder. "I don't know what to say to her. I wish it were possible to punch a village."

"Then don't say anything," Zevran chimed in softly from the other side of the fire, the rising sparks reflected in his liquid-dark eyes. "I have an idea on how to make our _querida _feel better. But, you must come with me."

For a moment, Alistair looked visibly torn. On the one hand, he did not want to detach himself from his miserable, fat-bellied wife even for a moment; on the other, he had been trying to console her for the past hour and nothing had worked. Now she sat beside him clad in shirt and smalls, the uncomfortable leather breeches and boots in a pile on the sand. Her hair was loose, falling in a tangled mass of dark red tendrils past her waist.

"Uncle," he said after a moment, making up his mind. "Will you sit with her?"

After pressing a kiss to Flora's full, trembling mouth, he clambered to his feet; advancing around the fire to confer quietly with the elf. After Zevran had explained his idea, Alistair gave a swift nod.

"We'll be back soon, my love," he said, quiet and resolute. "Uncle Teagan is going to stay with you in the meantime."

Flora gave a doleful croak, her head hanging like an over-watered flower.

The bann, feeling his heart lurch inexplicably, sat down on the sand beside her. He leaned forward and gave the flames a poke, with a long piece of driftwood that had clearly been splintered from the hull of a ship. The fire hissed and spat in response, chewing its way through the fuel as it threw off gouts of glittering sparks; flooding the cave with a mellow, ochre glow. Beside him, Flora sat hunched over her swollen stomach, half-heartedly clutching a blanket around herself and sniffling.

"I've a joke about fish, poppet," Teagan said suddenly, his voice echoing between the hollowed stone walls of the cavern.

After a moment Flora tilted her damp face towards him, her eyelashes beaded with wetness. She did not say anything, but there was a flicker of curiosity in her limpid, cloud-grey stare.

"What's the richest fish on Thedas?" he asked, half-wondering what his peers from the Bannorn would think if they could see him spouting schoolboy jokes in a forsaken northern cave.

Flora blinked at him, and Teagan could see the wheels of thought turning behind her grave, tear-stained face. He was relatively certain that she would not guess the answer; the queen tended to interpret jokes literally.

"I don't know," she whispered, wiping her nose unceremoniously on her sleeve.

"A… goldfish," replied Teagan, slightly self-conscious.

Flora gazed at him for a long moment, then the corner of her mouth turned slowly upwards.

"A 'gold' fish?" she repeated, wide-eyed.

"Aye, petal," he said, with a wry snort. "It's not very high-minded humour, I'm afraid. Not the kind of thing you'd hear in a witty Orlesian salon."

"I wouldn't understand it if it were high-minded," Flora replied, honestly. "I think that a fish made out of gold would _sink, _though. Do you have another joke?"

Fortunately, Teagan – who had been raised in the fishing town of Redcliffe and had spent much time travelling to the Marches in the company of sailors – _did _have another one.

"Where do fish sleep?"

Flora thought about it diligently for several minutes; quiet enough that Teagan thought she had gone to sleep. Eventually, she shook her head and nudged him gently in the ribs, curling her bare toes into the sand.

"Tell me."

"In a river bed."

The bann cringed internally as he spoke, aware of how contrived and puerile the joke was. Yet – after she had thought about it – Flora let out a damp snuffle of humour.

"D-do you have any more, Bann Teagan?" she asked, reaching around her stomach to tighten the strapping on her bare knee.

Teagan broke into a mild sweat; realising that he was now committed to a stream of marine-themed humour until Alistair and Zevran returned.

The next moment a sniffing Flora let her head rest onto his shoulder, exhaling with some measure of relief. In the face of such motivation, the bann suddenly found that he could come up with an _inexhaustible_ supply of fish-based jokes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor old Flo! I think this is the first chapter where she's just cried for two and a half thousand words, lol. Nothing like a good old fish joke to cheer one up! I can take no credit for these jokes, they're just random crap ones from the universe, lol.


	131. The Prehistoric Forest

Outside the cave, the wide expanse of coarse sand stretched down to the receding tide. The Waking Sea seethed quietly out in the straits, lashing salt spray up against the jagged ridge of rock known locally as the _Hag's Teeth. _Night on the northern coast drew in with a deep, dark lustre, like black tea from Antiva steeped for a little too long; the stars standing out like burning, white-hot embers against a coal face.

Within the cave, the sound of the sea gnawing angrily at the reef was somewhat muted by solid rock. Wynne, wearier from the journey than she would ever deign to admit, snored softly from her bedroll. One of the Mabari had trotted off in the wake of king and elf; the other had stayed behind to guard the mother of the Theirin heirs, sprawling lazily across the cave entrance.

The bann's right leg had begun to prickle with pins and needles from the period of extended inactivity, yet it would have taken a host of Darkspawn to move him from his current position. Flora's head was still resting against his shoulder; she had been quiet for some time, and he thought she might have gone to sleep.

"Bann Teagan?" the queen said suddenly, the north in her voice shaping his name like no other in their company.

"Just Teagan," he corrected her, gently. "What is it, Flora?"

"What was Alistair like as a little boy?"

Teagan thought for a long moment, dusting off memories that had lain dormant for over a decade. He had split much of his time between Redcliffe and Rainesfere during the years of Alistair's childhood; and had been informed by Eamon as to the identity of the gangly blond stable-lad who had a natural knack with the horses.

"He worked hard, for the most part," the bann said, slowly. "Though he could also slip into daydreaming. He liked to please, and to be praised. A great asset to the stable-master too. I once tried to poach him for my own horse-yard at Rainesfere – unsuccessfully, as it happens. Why do you ask, petal?"

"I'm thinking about what traits the twins might inherit," she replied distantly, her voice drifting up from his right shoulder. "I hope that they've been influenced by _all _of you over the past few months. I'd like them to have Alistair's bravery, and Wynne's wisdom, and your conviction, and Zevran's wit."

From the ease with which Flora recited the list of qualities, it was clearly something that she had thought extensively about.

"Did you get all that?" she continued, patting her midriff as something nudged against her belly from within. "I hope you're paying attention."

"What about from their mother?" the bann replied, quietly. "What should they inherit from you?"

He felt her shrug, with a northerner's inherent self-depreciation.

"I don't have any skills or talents," Flora replied sleepily, the wool of her tunic rippling as one of the twins squirmed. "I'm not clever. I don't know what they could get from me_."_

"Nonsense," said the bann firmly, as the Mabari lying across the tent entrance pricked up its ears. "If they inherit even a _quarter_ of your- "

He was interrupted by the return of Zevran and Alistair, who were conversing in low tones as they entered through the mouth of the cave. Alistair almost fell into the fire in his haste to scuttle across the sand to his wife; reaching down to embrace her as relief suffused his face.

"My darling girl," he breathed as she curled the corner of her mouth up at him. "I missed you. You're not crying anymore!"

After sinking to the sand, the king manhandled his fat-bellied wife onto his lap; leaning back against the cave wall with her in his embrace. Flora put her arms around his neck, grateful for the solid, reassuring warmth of Alistair's chiselled chest.

"Bann Teagan told some fish jokes," she replied, fingering the collar of his tunic. "He was very good at it. I think he should become someone who tells jokes for a job."

"How about it, uncle?" Alistair suggested, gamely. "Who tells jokes for a living?"

"A court jester?" suggested Teagan, trying not to laugh. "I think I'll politely decline, poppet. I'm not sure the outfit would suit me."

Flora rested her chin on Alistair's shoulder, comforted by her husband's bulky physicality. Alistair caught the bann's eye and nodded a _thank you,_ grateful for Teagan's assistance in calming down his upset wife. He was well aware that his uncle – a confirmed bachelor, who enjoyed a minor reputation as a ladies' man - had little experience in offering _platonic_ reassurance to a weeping girl nearly two decades his junior. Teagan gave a grunt of acknowledgement, the ghost of Flora's head resting against his shoulder still lingering.

Flora's attention was then caught by the elf, who was rummaging quietly around on the far side of the campfire. Zevran had set up a small cooking stand, and was threading the bodies of several fish onto a thin cooking wire. As she watched, wide-eyed, her companion positioned the fish gently near the open flame.

"ZEVRA- " she started, then remembered that Wynne, Ser Gilmore and the scouts were sleeping further back in the cave. _"Zevran. _What are you doing?"

"'_Zevra'_ sounds like a glamorous female version of myself," the elf murmured, sitting back elegantly on his heels to survey his work. "And your husband and I went scavenging in the tide-pools for what was left behind in the wake of the water."

Flora swivelled herself sufficient in Alistair's arms to see the catch, eyeing the bodies of the fish suspended over the open flame.

"You've got some rockfish," she breathed, fascinated. "And some wrasse. That's a big one, the one on the end."

The elf smiled at her, reaching out and turning the cooking spike to roast the fish evenly.

"Antiva City does not have a beach: it is a port city constructed on stilts above the water," he murmured in response. "When the tide recedes, children go scavenging on the mud-flats beneath the buildings. They bring back crabs, mostly, and the occasional fish. Sometimes, if one was _lucky, _one found a tossed coin or carelessly-slipped ring wedged in the silt."

Flora grimaced, trying to envision Antiva City in her mind's eye. Redcliffe had a portion of its buildings constructed over the lake, but she could not imagine an entire multi-levelled _city _built atop the water.

"What stops it from sinking?" she asked, feeling Alistair's fingers settle themselves on her hip. "All the weight of those buildings!"

"Ah," replied the elf, turning the fish one more time as they sizzled and spat. "You see, _nena, _their foundations are built upon solid bedrock, though cunningly disguised by the sand."

Zevran paused, leaning forward to waft the scent of the smoke-infused flesh towards his discerning nostrils.

"I wish I had some peppers and a _cazuela _dish," he murmured, letting the fish grill for a few moments more. "Still, I have some seasoning that will be tolerable enough."

Shortly afterwards, he removed the smoked fish from the spit and spread them over a sleeping guard's shield; using the polished surface as a makeshift plate. Reaching deep into his leathers, the elf withdrew a small glass vial filled with a bright orange substance.

"Paprika, _carina. _It is ground from the fruits of peppers."

"Paprika," she repeated, trying and failing to mimic his rolled _r_-sound. _"Pap-rrrika."_

Zevran snorted softly to himself, rubbing pungent orange fingers into the smoked flesh of the fish.

"_Sí, amor. _Here."

They divided the fish amongst the three of them, forsaking plates and utensils and eating with greasy fingers. Flora ate in silence, fascinated at this foreign interpretation of a Herring staple. Even Alistair, who had never been the biggest fan of seafood, had to praise the quality of the Antivan's preparation.

"Zev," he protested, swallowing a smoked, spiced mouthful. "You never let on that you were so good at cooking when we were travelling around gathering the armies. You should've prepared more meals!"

"But Fereldan fare is inherently depressing, _mi rey," _the elf retorted, quick as a whip. "I was only able to make this dish after flirting enough with the cook at the Circle to gain access to his spice-larder. Much of the time, the only condiment available during our journeys was _salt."_

Alistair let out a snort in acknowledgement of this point, too preoccupied with his wife's emotional stability to summon any substantial defence of his country's cuisine. To his immense relief, the food seemed to have lifted Flora's morale; she was still damp-eyed, but the tears had now dried on her cheeks.

"Thanks, Zev," he murmured quietly, pressing a thumb against Flora's cheekbone to double-check that it was not freshly wet. "I appreciate… this."

Flora reached out a hopeful hand towards the elf; he shuffled himself around the base of the fire in a manner that should have been impossible to achieve elegantly, and yet he managed it. Once Zevran was within reach, Flora hooked an arm around his neck and pressed her lips firmly against his tattooed cheek. The elf reached up to pat the back of her head as she did so, a wry and wistful smile twisting the corner of his mouth.

"Thank you," Flora breathed in his ear, wiping her nose unceremoniously on her sleeve as she withdrew. "Everyone's bein' – _being - _kind to me. I'm ever so grateful for it. I… I know I was the only person who wanted to come here."

Alistair finished his last mouthful, lifting an arm to curl around his wife's shoulders as she returned to his side.

"My love," he said, and was not sure what else to say.

_I'm sorry that your adoptive mother still treats you worse than a barnacle stuck to one's boot? _

_Or that Herring – the one constant during the years of uncertainty and fear – has changed irrevocably in your absence?_

Instead of finishing his sentence, he held her more tightly to his side; mentally running through a half-dozen scathing put-downs for Gerda should she come looking for Flora in the morning.

An hour later, as the Mabari sprawled across the mouth of the cave and swatted at sand flies, those within slept with various degrees of settled-ness. Ser Gilmore and one of the scouts were unconsciously competing for _loudest snore;_ Zevran had resorted to rolling up wax paper and stuffing it in his ears. Wynne was now firmly lodged in her slumber, the quill still drooping between her fingertips.

It was a cool late-summer night, the chill north wind had blown away any nocturnal cloud and the sky stretched out in deep, star-spangled bleakness overhead. Outside, the tide was beginning to work its way back up the coarse-grained coast. Further out in the straits a storm was brewing, but the beach itself was relatively calm. The water brooded quietly, tossing the occasional foam-flecked defiance towards the rocky cliffs.

Alistair had made a nest in a far crevice of the cave, piling up the bedrolls and blankets in a determined effort to ensure that his wife would not get cold. Emotionally exhausted from the evening's tribulations, he had fallen asleep within minutes of lying down; slumped against his leather travel pack.

Flora, curled in the crook of his arm, had not been able to rest. Her heart kept surging forwards, her mind whirling with nosy tourists, _Herring grit _for sale, the preserved bones of a long-dead youth, her adopted mother's accusatory glare; all fermenting and frothing within her skull like the churning sea nearby.

The firelight cast strange, dizzying patterns on the cave wall opposite. The queen watched them for an hour, listening to the snores of her companions and feeling the solid reassurance of Alistair's heartbeat against her shoulder. Eventually, she began the arduous process of un-entangling herself from the bundle of blankets and her husband's arms. Due to the stress of the evening, Alistair had neglected to tie a strand of her hair to his finger, and so Flora was able to free herself without rousing him.

Barefoot she crept around the campfire clad only in one of the king's shirts, her hair hanging loose around her waist. Stepping carefully over Zevran's feet, she padded across the sand towards the echo of the sea. One Mabari hound lifted its head and gave a little whine, eyeing the bearer of the next generation of Theirins as she sidled towards the cave mouth. This roused the senior of the guards, who gave his junior counterpart a swift kick.

"Your Majesty," the older officer hissed through the darkness and the queen turned large, pale eyes on him. "Is something wrong, my queen?"

"No," Flora replied, vaguely. "I'm just going for a walk."

Both guards looked at one another, aware that in the past Flora's 'harmless' nocturnal wanderings had taken her to abandoned villages and isolated woodland.

"I'll take Brute and go wi' her," the senior officer muttered to his junior, clambering to his feet and retrieving his sword. "You stay an' guard the king."

By the time that the man had strapped on his sword-belt, Flora had wandered out of the cave. Brute, the tan Mabari with the broken fang, had responded more quickly than the guard. The hound was a few paces behind the king's pregnant wife, trotting silently across the coarse sand with its ears pricked high.

The beach stretched out before Flora in a great, mottled swathe of sand and shingle. The tide-line was marked with a belt of seaweed and driftwood; thirty yards or so from the cave entrance. Further still, the sea crept ever closer, fingers of frothing white clawing their way up the shale. The Hag's Teeth reef stood silhouetted against the water, jagged and dark, with a pinprick of blazing light at the end.

_That used to be my job, to clamber out onto the rocks and light the warning-beacon, _Flora thought to herself as her feet sunk into the sand. _I wonder who does it now? Maybe that boy who was hawking tours of the village, he seemed nimble enough. _

The Mabari, noticing that the Theirin's bride was limping slightly, bit gently at the leather strap trailing from her weak knee. Flora reached down – awkwardly, due to her swollen midriff – and tightened the strapping.

"Thank you," she said to the dog, brushing her fingers across the top of its head. She had once been a little afraid of Mabari, but the months spent in their company while on progress had eased any lingering fears.

The wind ruffled the bottom of her shirt, the linen hem fluttering about her bare thighs. Inhaling a great gulp of damp, salt-laced air Flora continued to pad down the beach; weaving her way around stray driftwood and clumps of tangled seaweed. The guard followed at a respectful distance, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible and yet unable to prevent himself from cursing as he almost fell over a half-submerged rock.

The junior officer, clad in sleep-trousers and a hastily-donned breastplate, hovered at the cave entrance and watched the three diminishing figures. The queen was shuffling her way bare-legged towards the sea, the wind plucking at trailing ropes of hair. The Mabari followed on her heels, ears pricked, while the senior guard was struggling to keep his balance on the damp sand.

The younger guard made up his mind, treading around the fire and stooping to tentatively nudge Alistair's shoulder.

"Majesty?"

Alistair grimaced, yawned, and then looked down into his empty embrace. The handsome face contorted in alarm and he clambered rapidly to his feet, head swivelling.

"_My wife- "_

"The queen is on the beach," the guard hastened to reassure him. "The captain is with her, but I thought I ought to wake you."

"Thank you," Alistair replied, tugging his shirt over his head with one hand while buckling his sword belt with the other.

Emerging onto the beach, the king found himself grateful for an illuminating full moon; bathing the expanse of sand in a silvered glow. Striding around the smouldering campfire, he followed in Flora's footsteps – her _literal _footsteps, since the outline of her feet was clearly visible. The junior officer and the other Mabari followed at a respectful distance, the dog snapping his jaws at sand-flies and small, scuttling crabs.

The nocturnal ambience softened the harsh edges of the Storm Coast; its unforgiving bleakness diluted beneath the kind obfuscation of night. The dull roar of the Waking Sea echoed in the distance, the underbelly of the beach left exposed in its wake. Alistair made his way around tide pools, fragments of driftwood and clumps of iron-rich crimson seaweed; unable to stop himself from glancing at the bare bones of old wreckage emerging eerily from the sand. Part of him wondered how many drowned men had been washed ashore on this beach, and if his own father had been one of them.

Tearing his mind away from such macabre thought, Alistair stepped purposefully over a ragged line of seaweed. He focused his attentions on his best friend as he headed towards the damp sand near the shallows. Before him, the senior guard and the Mabari had come to a halt; an incongruous sight in the middle of the beach.

"The queen is just ahead, King Alistair," the captain muttered, turning his head at Alistair's approach. "She said she wanted a _walk." _

"Thank you," replied Alistair distantly, focusing on the narrow shoulders of his wife.

Flora was sitting on the sand a dozen yards away, her bare legs stretched out before her. She was gazing out at the seething, white-capped waters as they lashed against the distinctive rocky spur of the _Hag's Teeth. _Her hair fell loose down her back, a deep red mass of tendrils long enough to fall past the base of her spine.

Alistair went to sit beside her, his fingers brushing affectionately over the top of her head as he lowered himself to the sand. To his relief, Flora was not crying – the grave, finely-hewn features were pensive, the pale grey gaze fixed on the open straits. She turned her face towards him as he sat, the full mouth tilting upwards into a wan smile. He reached out to caress a thick rope of Flora's hair as it hung beside her face, running his finger and thumb down to where the oxblood skein trailed over the sand. He did not say anything, but waited for her to broach the silence; if indeed she chose to do so.

Flora let her toes sink into the damp sand, inhaling the salt-scented air and feeling the comforting, familiar dampness within her lungs.

"From now on," she said eventually, with a lacing of wistfulness. "My home will be wherever _you_ are."

Alistair felt a twist of instinctual delight within his stomach, after all, was this not what he had secretly wished for? He did not want to share his wife with a desolate village on the northern coast; he was determined to have _all _of Flora's heart.

This selfishness only lasted for a moment before the king felt ashamed of such self-centred sentiment. He leaned forward and tilted her chin from side to side, his gaze moving thoughtfully over her face.

"Herring might have changed," Alistair murmured, softly. "But I wager that the Waking Sea itself is no different."

Flora paused, and then nodded; the changeable, seething, current-torn straits were somehow _exactly_ as she remembered.

"You've always said that you have Herring grit in you, darling, but I think it's more saltwater in your veins," Alistair continued, warming to his theme as he touched her crimson-seaweed hair and gazed at the translucent paleness of her eyes. "My wild, determined, unpredictable beauty. Herring grit was shaped by _these_ waves, after all."

"Wild?" Flora breathed, peering back at him through dark lashes. "Am I _wild?"_

"I've known you to be tempestuous, baby," he replied, a wry smile twisting at his mouth. "In certain situations."

"Wild… like an angry lobster?"

"Uh- "

Flora blinked at him a moment longer and then smiled sadly, manoeuvring herself to her feet in the sand. As Alistair scrambled to join her, she reached out to grasp his fingers; turning her pale, resolute face up to his.

"I want to show you something."

She led him across the damp ridges of sand, heading purposefully for a stretch of beach that lay just eastwards of the cave. The guards and Mabari followed at a tactful distance, grateful that the full moon provided ready illumination.

As they proceeded across the beach, Alistair noticed something peculiar about the moonlit terrain before them. The mottled sand was broken at ragged intervals by dozens of dark protrusions; each one the approximate width of a human torso, and strangely angular, like shark's teeth rising from the sand. As they drew closer, Alistair reached down to touch one of the jagged mounds – he had thought at first that it was a rock, but quickly realised that it had an _organic _texture.

"Maker's Breath," he murmured, glancing around at the similar eruptions in the sand around them. "What're all these, Flo?"

"They're trees," Flora said, just as the king himself recognised them as the stunted remains of wooden trunks. "Whenever Herring has a big storm – there was one last night – the mud gets washed away and you can see them."

"Trees," Alistair repeated in wonder, stooping to touch a hard, blackened stump. "I've never seen anything like it."

"They're from a forest that grew here thousands of years ago," said Flora vaguely, her face tilted up to the silver-edged moon. "Before the time of Andraste. Then the sea rose, and the trees drowned. But they were preserved by the peat-mud. That's what my dad told me, anyway."

"That's amazing, Flo," he replied, turning once more to survey the strange landscape. "I've never seen anything like this before."

Flora eased her bulk down onto a patch of sand between the petrified trunks, one hand resting on the mound of her stomach. Alistair went to join her, lowering himself with far greater ease. A crab scuttled out of a nearby clump of seaweed, casting a suspicious look at the uninvited guests.

"In Herring, they have a story," she whispered, her voice carrying beneath the distant crash of the waves. "That there was once a kingdom called _Helig's Court, _between Ferelden and the Free Marches. It was ruled by two brothers, one dedicated and the other a drunkard. The drunkard fell into an ale-slumber and accidentally left the sluice gates to the great dam open. Water flooded the entire kingdom, and drowned all that lay within it. That's why it's called the _Waking _Sea. In times of danger, you're supposed to be able to hear the war-horns of _Helig's Court _blasting out from beneath the waves."

Alistair listened to Flora's story, but equally paid heed to the way she had_ begun _it. For the first time he could remember, she had used the phrase: _'in Herring, they…" _as opposed to _'in Herring, we…" _

Flora blinked; having simultaneously made this realisation. She swallowed, hard and painful, and an unprompted tear slid from beneath her eyelashes.

"My love," Alistair breathed, reaching out to intercept the tear with a finger. "My own sweet wife."

Flora turned her head towards her husband, her mournful eyes searching his handsome, honest face. Without breaking her gaze, she reached up and began to unbutton her nightshirt. Alistair's lips parted and then remained silent, his own hazel stare dropping as she bared her breasts to him. With a shrug of the shoulders, the nightshirt slithered onto the sand and she was naked in the moonlight before him.

"You know the protocol," the senior guard hissed towards the junior, elbowing him while turning around to face the cliffs. "Stop gawkin'."

The younger officer, who had caught a tantalising glimpse of the queen's high, rounded breasts before being nudged in the ribs, reluctantly swivelled in the same direction.

"This new Theirin and his queen have rutted more over the past eight weeks than Cailan – Maker rest him – and Anora did in eight _years,"_ he commented, scratching at his nose.

"Good," retorted the elder. "Long may it last. The more royal babies she makes, the stronger Ferelden's future."

Meanwhile, Flora had placed her hand squarely on Alistair's chest, pushing him backwards onto the sand. Astonished and delighted, he had let her bear him down; his lips parting to readily accept her demanding mouth. She clambered on top of him, straddling his pelvis with deliberate intent, hungrily claiming his tongue even as she began to rock against him.

Alistair let out a helpless groan into her mouth, their lips working together even as he reached down to caress the bare, ripened curves of her body. He had begun to stiffen in his breeches the moment that he had glimpsed a dusky pink nipple; Flora's shameless grinding against him had finished the job. A flush of arousal now mingled with the determination writ across her lovely features, she leaned back slightly to allow his hand access between her legs.

He was only permitted to fondle her for a moment before she began to tug urgently at the strings of his trousers. The king leaned back on his elbows in the sand, savouring the sight of his bride determinedly pulling him free of the linen, the need pulsing from her in waves. Alistair reached down, his purpose to assist her – but Flora had already manoeuvred herself on top of him, a soft sigh of relief escaping her throat. It had been only two minutes since the nightshirt had slithered from her shoulders; now, the queen was thoroughly impaled on her husband.

Flora paused to catch her breath, oxblood hair falling loose around her waist and a flush creeping across her pale breasts. Alistair was gazing up at her from the sand, his tongue wetting his lips and his eyes dark with desire. She leaned forward as far as she was able, taking his face between her palms as she began to move. It had been her intention to kiss him, but the rhythmic pistoning between her legs soon took up all of her attention; small pants of arousal escaping her throat.

Alistair, who always loved watching his wife work herself on his body, leaned back on his elbows in the coarse sand. The moonlight filtered down through a wispy layer of cloud, leaving silvered trails on the restless surface of the water. His best friend was lost in her own surfeit of lust; dreamy eyed and whimpering with pleasure.

"You look so fucking beautiful, baby," he told her throatily, reaching out to caress her full, gasping lip as she rode him. "I'm the luckiest man on Thedas."

Flora took his finger in her mouth, moaning something incoherent as she did so. This was the cue for Alistair to put an end to his wife's dominance. Sitting upright, he reached to grasp Flora by the hips and began to ease her up and down with a soft murmuring of praise. On similar occasions in the past he had suspended her in the air to allow for deeper penetration, in Flora's current condition, he held her securely on his lap. Each thrust was deep, slow and purposeful; he thrilled at each strangled gasp he drew from his sweating wife.

"I want to hear you," he instructed her, in between hungry kisses plastered to her face, throat and bared breasts. "Nice and loud, darling."

As she soon demonstrated, the wholly unsubtle Flora did not know how to express her release in anything _other _than _'loud.' _

A few moments later, Alistair _\- _dazed from his own climax - held his quivering wife against his chest in an effort to calm her racing heart. He touched his lips to Flora's part-open mouth, a hand coming up to caress the side of her flushed, fine-boned face.

"Well, I don't think we've ever lain together in the remnants of a prehistoric forest before," he murmured, tenderness warming each word. "What brought this mood on – _aaahh!"_

This shriek was in response to a sudden surge of water; shallow, foamy and cold. While the king and queen had been making love on the sand, neither of them had paid any attention to the incoming tide. Alistair, who had his wife perched atop muscular thighs, suffered the brunt of the frigid, salty influx. His eyes bulged as his nether regions were flooded; the warm aftermath of pleasure brutally ended.

Flora, watching her nightshirt bobbing gently away in the surf, did not mind the cold water surging around her thighs. She smiled down at Alistair as the foamy shallows washed up around them, a clump of seaweed tangling itself on her calf.

"What's wrong?"

"It's – it's bloody _freezing," _he complained, gripping her in place while clambering up with mammoth effort. "Maker's Breath, my balls are the size of raisins."

Flora cackled, slithering down to stand in the knee-deep shallows. The guards were swivelling like some Orlesian miniaturist's toy; turning towards the king's shout of alarm and then spinning back on seeing that the queen was still unclothed.

"It's refreshing," she replied, pushing her feet into the gritty sand and feeling it rise between her toes.

"Too refreshing," Alistair retorted, keeping a grip on his wife's arm as though worried that she might suddenly be swept out to sea. "Where's your nightshirt, my love?"

Flora shrugged, she had last seen it carried out on the pull of the tide.

"Dunno," she replied, vaguely. "In the Free Marches."

Alistair pulled his own tunic over her head, manhandling his lust-drowsy wife into the finely woven linen.

"Right. Now, if the night-time shenanigans are over, darling, you need to get some rest!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So the prehistoric, preserved forest is based on Borth Forest in Wales – which is SUCH a cool place to visit! You can Google pictures of it… it's a two mile long stretch of preserved, 5000 year old tree trunks on the Welsh coastline. I thought it would be a cool thing to include! Helig's Court is based on Cantre'r Gwaelod, a sunken kingdom from Welsh legend. It's a bit like Atlantis, and features a lot in song, literature and poetry here – it has a Wikipedia page, for anyone interested. Hurray for having a culture that I can steal lots of interesting things from, hehehe. I'm very patriotic!
> 
> WILD, LIKE AN ANGRY LOBSTER! Well, Flora was a little bit wild in this chapter, haha. I think the babies could inherit good things from her though, even if she's not very clever or talented.


	132. Farewell To Herring

The next morning, the royal company gathered around a fire constructed from scavenged driftwood, and positioned just outside the cave entrance. The smell of freshly grilled fish mingled with the seaweed and the salt-brine air; covetous seagulls circled and dived from the cliffs overhead. It was a damp, murky morning – as was usual on the northern coast – and the wind carried a faint autumnal portent.

Teagan, who had overseen the construction of the fire, had asked Flora if she wanted to go into the village to break her fast. In response, Flora glanced in the direction of the huddled buildings in the distance, and then silently shook her head; hunching her shoulders miserably. The bann had not pressed the issue, but made sure that she was given the largest and most succulent portion of grilled trout.

"How long will it take us to reach Highever?" Zevran asked, his voice faintly muffled. With a catlike distaste for the damp, he had wound Wynne's woollen scarf several times around his head. On anybody else this would have looked ridiculous, yet the elf somehow managed to appear almost _stylish. _

"If the weather keeps in our favour, and we don't lose the light too early, we ought to be there in three days," Teagan replied, forking another slab of grilled fish onto Wynne's plate. "I've an inn in mind for tonight, one I've stayed at before. Name of _The Flagon and Blessing. _The tavern-keeper is trustworthy, and it's not well-known._"_

Alistair nodded, he was eager for Flora to spend eight hours in a proper bed, beneath a solid roof. He was well aware that his wife had not passed an easy night; though this was due to her body's physical discomfort and troubled thoughts, as much as it was due to their surroundings. Flora herself had been very quiet throughout breaking her fast. She sat with her back to the huddled stone buildings a half-mile distant, eating her grilled fish with head bowed and shoulders slumped. Not even Zevran's teasing about the mottled aftermath of Alistair's kisses, which trailed across her collarbone and down her throat, could raise a smile.

Alistair himself was eager to be off – to leave the hideous little village firmly behind – but was aware that they could not leave without first speaking to Pelegrin, Flora's adoptive father. To this end, he kept swivelling around to squint off towards the clustered buildings, hoping to see a tall, broad-shouldered silhouette approaching over the sand.

Finally, he recognised a figure making its way measuredly across the beach towards them. Pel did not rush – nothing in Herring moved at a rapid pace – but paused to check the scraps left by the incoming tide as he went; kicking aside driftwood and lifting up clumps of seaweed. At one point, he stopped to retrieve something half-submerged in the damp sand. Whatever the object was, it was soon tucked into the battered leather pack slung over the old fisherman's shoulder.

After checking the contents of the lobster pots, Pel continued to make his way towards the royal company's fire.

Alistair pressed a hasty kiss to the side of his forlorn wife's forehead, then scrambled to his feet. Teagan followed in the king's wake as he strode across the sand, determined to intercept Pel before he could get within earshot.

On seeing the king and bann approach, the fisherman stopped on the sand and eyed them shrewdly. Pel was a tall, broad and powerfully built northerner – he bore more than a few passing similarities with Loghain. The wrinkle-latticed face and the grey, tangled beard were in stark contrast to the strong arms and weathered, capable hands; the muscle hardened over decades of hauling boats up over the sand.

Instead of bowing, the Herring native let out a grunt of greeting, his pale blue eyes settling curiously on Alistair's face.

"Mornin', yer maj."

Alistair took a deep breath, calming himself deliberately before speaking. He wanted nothing more than to pour forth a torrent of complaints; to vent his frustrations at his wife's sadness to the man that had always seemed a human manifestation of Herring itself.

"Flora's upset, ser," he began instead, gut twisting as he recalled Flora's desolation. "She's been in tears since we arrived."

"Somethin' wrong with the babe, eh?" Pel replied, his brow creasing.

"What? _No! _No," Alistair retorted, immediately. "The babe – _babies _are fine. She's having twins, by the way."

Pel grimaced reflexively: for the majority of commoners within Ferelden, having an extra mouth to feed was_ not_ a blessing.

"Eh, sorry."

Alistair felt a low churning of frustration within his belly, and forced himself to take another deep gulp of damp air.

"No need to be sorry, I'm very happy about it," he said, measuredly. "Absolutely _delighted,_ actually. But – what I meant, was, Flora's not had the best time since we've arrived here. She's been looking forward to coming back to Herring for months- "

"_Years_," interjected Teagan, and Alistair nodded.

"Years, and it's… it's not gone as she expected."

Pel gave a perplexed grunt, one that Alistair recognised as a sound of _query._

"Well, the _tourists," _the king explained, his brow furrowed._ "_The tours around the village – _'this was the Hero of Ferelden's home for ten years. This was where she lived. Here are the lobster pots that she used to empty'_. The selling of _souvenirs: _the strands of seaweed, the _Herring grit. _This place has made a profit off my wife's memories- out of her_ life! _She's been – she's been _exploited." _

Alistair trailed off, indignantly. Pel eyed him for a moment, and then gave an eloquent shrug, the wrinkles on his face deepening as he opened his mouth to speak.

"The village has made more money in the pas' three months than in three _years,"_ he replied, in the rasping, coarse-edged tones of the north. "'Cause of the extra coin, we ain't needed to send the boats out in the worst storms to bring in a catch. We've 'ad enough to tide us over 'til the sea settles. We ain't lost a soul in _weeks."_

Alistair blinked, visibly torn. On the one hand, he could see the man's point – and in his position as king of Ferelden, naturally approved of anything which benefitted the common citizen. On the other hand, he could not forget Flora's face when she had seen her much-prized '_Herring Grit' _bottled up for sale, its meaning cheapened.

"Well, Flora's mother is insane," he said, in a blunt change of tack. "Has she always kept that mouldering corpse propped up at the dinner table?"

"'That_ 'mouldering corpse' _was my _son_," Pel retorted, with a brief flash of defiance. The next moment a small sigh escaped his throat, one shoulder rising in a shrug. "Eh, but it's not, anymore. It's the bare bones, what the sea chose to return to us. The loss of the lad ruined my wife's mind."

"Well, _your_ wife was vile to _my _wife," Alistair said, a fraction less confrontationally. "Poor Flo was in bits."

"Gerda's sick in the 'ead," Pel replied, the resignation writ raw across his face. "She's not been right for years. The lass should _know _this – she knows not to take what her ma says to heart."

Alistair and Teagan looked at one another; an anxious hazel gaze meeting a pale green stare.

"I think you ought to speak to Florence yourself, ser," Teagan said, finally. "She's just breaking her fast."

The three men walked over the sand; Pel's loping stride easily able to match that of the two younger men. Overhead, the gulls wheeled and cried out to one another with unintelligible urgency. Pel glanced upwards, then grunted a comment in a brogue so thick that neither Teagan nor Alistair could make out his words.

The rest of the company were still seated around the dying embers of the campfire. Zevran was perched elegantly on a boulder, gazing pensively out to sea like a centrepiece from some illustrated storybook. Ser Gilmore was conversing with the scouts over the map; Alistair was not the only one keen to depart the village as soon as possible.

Flora was clearly in the middle of being berated by Wynne. The senior enchanter was kneeling beside the despondent queen, pointing out letters that the latter had just traced in damp sand with her finger.

"Come now, Florence, _concentrate! _I know you can spell _Pentaghast, _so it bemuses me utterly why you have chosen to start it with a _'Y'."_

Flora looked down at her scribed letters and let out a mournful sigh. "I have the brain of a _turnip."_

"My love," called Alistair as they approached across the sand. "Sweetheart, it's your dad."

"Pa! _Papa!"_

Despite her newly conflicted feelings about Herring, Flora's instinctual delight at seeing her father again rose to the fore. She swivelled and made to clamber upright, Pel hastily reached out to put a hand on her shoulder.

"Eh, don't get up, lass!"

Flora beamed up at the old fisherman with transparent delight, a new brightness settled across her features. Pel lowered himself to the sand beside her with a grunt, his pale, clever eyes moving up and down his adoptive daughter's new shape.

"Yeh got a belly like the prow of a ship," he commented, raising a bristled, greying eyebrow. "Mus' be ready to spawn, soon."

"Mm, in a month. Wynne thinks it'll be a couple of weeks," Flora replied, moving one hand to rest on her stomach. The twins, with such little space to move, spent most of their days sleeping now in preparation for the birth.

_Not in Herring, _Alistair thought wildly to himself. _Not here. Please, Maker. I can't have Herringites as children._

Pel let out one of the many grunts within his vocabulary; unintelligible to anyone other than a northerner. Only a native of the Storm Coast could accurately discern the meaning of a grunt based on timbre and intonation alone.

"Husband lookin' after you, eh?" he continued, returning to coherent speech.

"Yes," replied Flora, reaching out to wind her fingers in the fraying woollen hem of Pel's jumper. "You could search the whole ocean and not find a better husband."

Alistair beamed at the eccentric compliment; appreciative of its underlying meaning. The smile was wiped rather rapidly off his face at the fisherman's next question.

"And you ain't given him no cause to beat you?" Pel continued, with northern bluntness. "It ain't good for you to get a smack in your condition."

Flora shook her head as Alistair's eyes bulged in sheer, horrified incredulity. The blanching king was struck dumb by the notion that he could _ever _raise a hand against his beloved wife; his queen; his best friend; the saviour of his country and the mother of his children.

"Pa," the queen herself continued, taking a deep breath to ensure that her words emerged relatively stable. "Papa, there's been a lot of – a lot of _changes _to the village. Tomar's son is sellin' – _selling – _'Herring Grit'!"

Pel snorted, casting an appraising eye up at the gathering clouds.

"Is that what's got yeh blubberin' like a babe, lass?"

Flora blinked at him, grateful that she had managed to keep her composure.

The old fisherman shot her a sideways glance, then returned his gaze thoughtfully to the sky; thoughts meandering.

"I reckon that's a big storm brewin' up there. Yeh don't want to be sleeping out in the tent tonight."

"She won't be," croaked Alistair, still in a state of shock at the suggestion that he could ever lay a violent finger on his wife. "I'll… I'll make sure of that."

Pel nodded, his thoughts returning to Flora's comment like salmon making their way upstream.

"What they're doin'," he said at last, canting his head towards the village. "It don't change your past, do it?"

Flora blinked at him with eyes large and solemn as those of a young seal. Pel continued, clearing his throat partway through the uncharacteristically lengthy speech.

"It don't change the meanin' of the place for you. That's in _here- " _he planted a fist approximately in the middle of his ribs. "Your memories ain't changed, 'less you want 'em to be. Everyone's proud of you… in their own way. You know it ain't in our nature to show it."

Everybody was very quiet, their eyes fixed on Flora's pale, pensive face as she mused over her father's assertion.

Finally, the corner of Flora's mouth turned upwards and they all breathed an inward sigh of relief. The twisted corner expanded into a proper smile, and she reached out to put her fingers on the weathered skin of her father's wrist. They were all silent for a moment, listening to the wailing cries of the gulls and the equally frenetic clamour of the nearby waves. Alistair, unused to northern stillness, reached out and tightened the leather strap around his wife's weak knee.

"Ma isn't proud of me," Flora said softly, after a moment. "She called me a noble bedwarmer."

"Your ma ain't right in the head," Pel countered, gruffly. "She's no different to how she's always been – yeh _know _not to take it personal, like."

Flora nodded slowly, watching Alistair's long, capable fingers working at the leather band.

"I could cure anything wrong with the body," she whispered, almost to herself. "But I couldn't cure a sick _mind._ You know I tried."

"And you grew a thick skin 'cause of her sharp tongue," Pel reminded his adopted daughter, casting another glance up at the sky. "Ain't that thick skin served you well over the years?"

Flora thought about it: about the years of cruel jibes from her classmates in the Circle; the sly comments from her Warden brethren; the many side-eyes and sour remarks made about her accent, or her inferior status as a mage over the years. Flora had let the derision flow over her like the tide, with her spirits whispering in her skull and her Herring stoicism bolstering her heart. She had never allowed the mockery of others to dishearten her, or dissuade her from what she intended to do. In fact, in many cases, their cruel comments had actually _hardened _her resolve.

At her side, Alistair's face was twisting in a grimace. He did not agree with Pel's rationale – that the years of mean treatment from her adoptive mother had tempered a resilience in Flora that had been instrumental in ending the Blight – but at this point, he simply wanted his wife to feel better.

To the king's relief, Flora was nodding slowly. She brushed at her cheeks as though embarrassed by yesterday's tears; taking a long and steadying breath.

"Yes, papa."

There was another long moment of quiet. Overhead, from somewhere deep within the miasma of cloud, came a low and ominous rumble. Flora glanced at the menacing skies and turned anxious eyes on her father, fingers tightening on his sleeve.

"Do you have to go out in the boat today?"

The old fisherman shook his head, the beginnings of a rueful smile curling from beneath the salt-and-pepper beard.

"Nah, lass. We made enough profit from them visitors – and the sale o' Herring Grit - to see us through t'end of week."

Flora blinked, struck into thoughtful silence. Teagan took advantage of the pause to clear his throat tactfully, shooting a swift and meaningful glance towards the king.

"We should be on the road soon, Alistair. It'll take all day to reach the inn, and we don't want to get caught in that storm."

Impulsively, the king slung an arm around Flora's narrow shoulders as she sat in the sand, pressing his lips to her hair. She tilted her head to peer up at him and his hazel gaze swept appraisingly over her face – Alistair could interpret the minute sea-changes in Flora's expression as accurately as her father could read the sky overhead.

"Does that sound alright to you, my love?"

To everybody's immense relief, Flora gave a quiet little nod, her grey eyes soft and contemplative.

"Mm."

It took only a short time for them to pack up their belongings and load them onto the cart; everyone moving more hastily due to their desire to_ leave_. The clouds were massing like an opposing army, lurking menacingly on the horizon.

The natives of Herring came out to see them off, three dozen villagers clad in the rough wool of the north; their expressions ranging from suspicious to mildly curious. Flora's mother was there too, standing beside Pel, who had a steadying hand on her elbow. In contrast to her earlier strident belligerency, Gerda now appeared pale and confused. She watched the cart being loaded up, the Theirin-liveried guards calling out to one another as they checked the baggage and strapped it in place. Teagan was methodically checking the hooves of the horses, making sure that the shoes were screwed tightly in place and that there were no stones wedged between flesh and metal.

Her eyes went next to Flora, who was standing beside Alistair and swivelling her gaze across the landscape; as though trying to fix Herring and the Storm Coast in her mind forever. Although nobody had mentioned it, Flora was aware that it was unlikely that they would be visiting her old home again. Alistair's fingers were entwined with hers, his warm and strong palm reassuring as ever.

"The girl ain't stayin'?" Gerda asked Pel suddenly, a raw note in her voice. "I... I thought she were come back to us for good."

"No, wife," replied Pel, patiently. "She's married, an' got babes on the way. She lives on the east coast, now."

Gerda fell silent, seeming a greyer, frailer shadow of the formidable woman they had met the previous night.

Flora looked at her adoptive mother, then squeezed Alistair's fingers before dropping his hand, padding across the gravel towards Gerda. Impulsively, she thrust herself upwards – Gerda was several inches taller – and kissed the woman on her mottled, wind-blasted cheek.

"Bye, ma."

Alistair relaxed a fraction as his wife returned to him across the sand, her face fixed and pale as a seashell. The little boy, Tomar's son, went scuttling in her wake, brandishing something in a small fist.

"Flora, _Floraaa!"_

The guards twitched at the informality of the address, but no Herring native would ever refer to their local mender as _your majesty. _

Flora turned towards the little boy, who had a pinched and anxious face. Clearly, the child had picked up on the queen's general unhappiness yesterday, and felt somewhat responsible.

"'Ere," chirped the child, holding up a glass vial of beige sand. "Some _Herring Grit, _free of charge!"

Flora swallowed, and made herself smile as she reached out to take the little vial.

"Thank you," she said, gravely. "I – I'll treasure it forever."

She thought for a moment, and then turned to a nearby barrel. On its barnacle-encrusted, half-rotten wooden surface rested a set of fisherman's tools, placed there by one of the locals as they saw the royal company off.

In a swift gesture – the hallmark of practising with Zevran – Flora stretched out the end of her long ponytail and sliced off six inches of hair. She then handed the distinctive oxblood clump to the gawping boy, steeling herself to maintain the smile.

"I bet you can get a good price for this," she said, recalling the crimson ribbons tied to the lances and polearms of the Fereldan United Army. "I… I hope you make enough profit that nobody has to go out in a storm for the next few weeks."

Jan reached out reverently to take the strands in a grubby fist, his eyes wide.

"Say thankee," instructed his uncle sharply, and the boy dutifully did so.

As the Herring locals dispersed, Alistair, who could not quite trust himself to speak coherently, reached out to tug gently at his wife's unravelling braid. Even with six inches shorn off, her hair still fell to the middle of her back; beforehand, it had reached below her waist. Flora turned solemn, cloud-coloured eyes on him, the damp lashes like dark reeds surrounding a clear pool.

"My love," he murmured, swallowing a sudden lump in his throat. "Here, I'll have another of your hair-bands somewhere. I've a collection of them."

Alistair had grown used to finding a selection of the leather ties that Flora used to restrain her hair in the tucked-away parts of his clothing; hidden in pockets, tucked in folds of his tunic and even inside the toes of his boots. Sure enough, he was soon able to locate a tie up his sleeve. Flora ducked her head and allowed him to weave the strands of her hair into a rudimentary but functional braid. Once the king was finished, he bent forwards and kissed the top of her head; soft and affectionate.

"There we go, sweetheart. All done."

Shortly afterwards, they were mounted on horseback and the scouts were advancing on the road ahead; leading the company between the low, curving cliffs and out of the cove. A fine drizzle had begun to fall, the seagulls singing out either a forlorn farewell or a celebration of their departure – depending on how one chose to interpret it.

Alistair – and the rest of the company – breathed an inward sigh of relief as the village of Herring shrunk to a dull, grey dot behind them. Flora had kept her gaze fixed stubbornly forwards until the very last moment, when she swivelled around in the saddle and shot one last, wistful stare towards her childhood home.

"Goodbye, Herring," she whispered, the words half-muffled against Alistair's shoulder. "Thank you for… for everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Oooooh, so it's goodbye to Herring for poor old Flo! I'm not sure how much I agree with Pel's logic - yes, Flora did learn to be resilient in Herring - it was where she got the grit in her soul - but was it worth the years of hard living and ill treatment from her adoptive mother? I don't think so... although her toughness did end up benefitting Ferelden. But those are exceptional circumstances! Anyway, I thought it was a nice way for Flo to make peace with Herring - the donation of some of her hair. It was getting ridiculous long, anyway, hehehe. Who needs butt-length hair?!


	133. Danger In The Woods

The royal company followed the coastal trail east for the next few hours, making good time along a surprisingly well-maintained road. It was steep but properly surfaced, and the branches of surrounding fir trees had been shorn before they could stretch too far over the road. The drizzle stayed light and bearable; the weather was reasonably mild considering that it was almost Kingsway.

Teagan remarked on the quality of the roads, praising Fergus for his dedication to maintaining the routes and byways of his teyrnir despite the distractions of the past few months. Flora pricked up her ears at the mention of her brother's name, cheering briefly before slumping back against Alistair's chest. She was sitting backwards on the saddle to better lean on him, her face planted squarely against his shoulder. The king was aware that his wife was dejected – there was a difference between this dolefulness and her usual solemnity – and had not released her from his embrace all morning.

"For a small country, Ferelden has a variety of diverse landscapes," Wynne commented as they passed through the heart of a craggy valley, its gravelled slopes precarious with boulders and loose stone. "From the rocky cliffs of the north, to the swamps of the Korcari Wilds- "

"The Frostbacks in the east, and the pasturelands of the Bannorn," agreed Teagan, keeping a cautionary eye on the unstable slopes ahead. "I've not travelled Thedas enough to know if there's other regions like it. I've only been to the Marches, and once to Orlais."

"Orlais is as rich in its geography as it is in its wealth," murmured Zevran, his lyrical, sun-infused accent in stark contrast to the damp and misty surroundings. "To the south are the Arbor Wilds, an unsettled forest littered with elven ruins. They say that the Dalish who reside there are the fiercest in Thedas. Then, at the furthest reaches of the empire, lie the Western Approaches. This was once a lushly forested region, but when the Blight came – it ravaged the land, rotted the soil, and turned it into sand."

"That's what would've happened to Ferelden," Alistair chimed in, nuzzling his chin against Flora's rain-damp head. "If it hadn't been for my brave and beautiful wife. _Hero of the realm." _

Flora let out a northerner's grunt into his shoulder, glancing upwards. The babies had woken up some time ago, and it felt as though they were wrestling within her stomach. Her back ached and her feet were swollen within her boots; riding on horseback was increasingly uncomfortable, and yet she would rather have eaten her mustard-coloured woollen dressing gown than ride in the _cart _with the baggage.

"And then there are the mountain ranges," continued Zevran, his voice soft against the pattering backdrop of drizzle. "The Frostbacks, the Hunterhorns, the Gamordan Peaks, _Ezoire. _Orlais is ringed with mountains."

"Aye, to keep the Orlesians in," muttered Teagan, prompting a snort from Alistair.

"Have you been to any Orlesian cities, other than Val Royeaux?" Wynne enquired, clutching the reins in a single hand while expertly tucking loose strands of hair back into her bun. "I once visited the Circle at Montsimmard, just after Ferelden declared its independence. _That _was a series of awkward dinners, I can tell you."

The senior enchanter smiled privately to herself, returning her other hand to the reins. Zevran chuckled, deep and rich.

"I once killed a sadistic viscount in Lydes," he reminisced, wistfully. "And I received _this _old wound in Jader. But, my dear Wynne, I am not sure there is a person in Thedas that has been to _all _the towns and cities in Orlais. There are, after all, _dozens." _

Flora raised her head from Alistair's shoulder, intrigued at the concept of such extensive civilisation.

"Dozens?"

"_Sí, querida," _replied Zevran, pleased that she had roused herself from her gloom. "There are many, many settlements within Orlais."

"Can you name them?"

"_Arlesans, Churneau, Ghislain, Halamshiral, Sahrnia, Salmont, Serault, Verchiel," _began the elf, after a measured breath. "And that is not all, but I shall start upon the _Vals: Val Chevans, Val Chevin, Val Colline, Val Falaise, Val Fontaine, Val Foret, Val Gamord, Val Henar, _and _Val Montaigne!"_

"And _Vallyroo, _the capital," offered Flora as Alistair tightened his grip, feeling the squirm of their children between them. "Why do so many of their cities began with Val? What does _val_ mean?"

Zevran shrugged an elegant shoulder; fortunately, the well-read Wynne was able to provide an answer.

"It is Orlesian for _valley_, Florence."

"Oh," said the wistful Flora, fiddling with the end of her braid. "You and Zevran are _so_ clever. I bet your brains weigh as much as a tuna fish."

"Well, perhaps a catfish," Wynne replied, gratified to see some colour returning to Flora's cheeks. "But thank you, child."

"Would you ever wish to see Val Royeaux for yourself, _carina?" _enquired Zevran, nudging his horse forwards as the path rose out of the shallow valley. "Explore the tangled Wilds and wander the grape-rich valleys of Serault? There is a lake near the capital so still that the locals have named it _Miroir de la Mère, _the mirror lake."

Flora shook her head immediately, swivelling around on the saddle to sit forwards as Alistair hastily aided her movement.

"No," she replied with northern bluntness, resting her hands on his restraining arm. "I like Ferelden."

"My wife is a true patriot," Alistair said proudly, lifting his bearded chin. "My Alamarri queen."

Flora twisted her head and smiled at him, and he inhaled a great gulp of relief; pleased that she had perked up.

They continued to follow the road out of the gravelled valley, emerging onto an open moor just as the rain graduated from drizzle to downpour. This, strangely enough, was Flora's favourite type of weather, and did more to cheer her than jokes or geographical discussion. She sat straight in the saddle and tilted her face up to the misting rains, her lips parted and her eyes closed; the dampness wetting her eyelashes and trickling down onto her cheeks.

Alistair leaned across the saddle towards Wynne, and asked her in a hushed whisper whether it was _unhealthy _for his thirty-three weeks pregnant wife to get _rained on. _The senior enchanter had almost laughed – and then seen the anxiety on the new father's face.

"No, Alistair, it won't do her any harm," Wynne replied, patiently. "Though take care that she doesn't become too cold, and that her hair doesn't get soaked through."

Alistair had dutifully wrapped his wife's head in a woollen scarf until she looked like a Rivaini bride, then bundled her in as many blankets as he could scavenge from the carts.

The company ate in the saddle and continued to ride through the afternoon. They passed through a wooded valley littered with stone ruins, then followed a winding stream for several hours. Gradually, leather tunics proved ineffective against the rain; by the time that the sun slid languidly towards the western horizon, even woollen smallclothes were soaked through. One of the horses went lame on the cobbled road and had to be led, the scout perching rather grumpily in the cart with the baggage.

The light was just leaving the sky when the drizzle finally abated. Teagan called for a halt, keen to spread out their maps and consult the route. They had passed several toppled wooden signposts during the afternoon - victims of the playful northern wind – and the scouts had been forced to navigate with compass alone. They drew to a stop at the edge of a damp cluster of woods; an incongruous clump of trees perched at the peak of a low hill. Several damp sheep eyed them malevolently, annoyed at having to share the sparse shelter with an extensive company.

The maps were spread out over a nearby toppled tree trunk; Teagan, Alistair, Ser Gilmore and the scouts immediately gathered around them and began to point out scribbled roads and blotchily inked landscape features.

"Is that a valley?"

"It could just be a splotch of ink. Isn't there meant to be a village here – _Skingle, Shingles – _where is it?"

"Gone, swallowed up by the malevolent Storm Coast as breakfast," chimed in Zevran, perching himself elegantly on the end of the toppled trunk. "Chewed up into splinters."

"Was that stream we crossed earlier meant to be this river?" Teagan added, squinting down at the map. "It was about the width of my saddle."

"I've seen more impressive streams when I take a piss in the mornin'," added the guard, then looked hastily around to check that the queen was not in earshot.

The queen, who would not have batted an eyelid at the crude comment, had vanished into the nearby trees. The twins had been prodding experimentally at her bladder for the past few hours; this was the fourth time she had needed the privy since they had eaten lunch.

It was quiet beneath the soft canopy of firs, the last vestiges of rain dripping from the branches onto the moss-covered earth. The fading light cast a peculiar, green-tinted hue over the ancient trunks, as though the wood was submerged deep beneath the waves. The few brave birds that dared venture out from their nests were perched on the branches, pecking miserably at damp feathers and eyeing the mottled earth for worms.

Flora knelt beside a thin trickle of water and rinsed her hands, watching the bushes rustle several yards away. A rabbit scampered out from the leaves, saw the human girl, and froze in its tracks.

"Don't worry," said Flora, waving her fingers at it. "I can't eat meat at the moment; my children don't like the taste."

The rabbit turned with a flash of a white cotton-tail and darted into the undergrowth. Flora dried her hands on the hem of her woollen tunic and lumbered upright, awkward as a new-born foal.

"Right," she said into the damp air, and then felt a chubby little foot nudge experimentally into her bladder once again. "Oh, no! Don't you try it! There's _nothing left in there."_

Patting the mound of her stomach, Flora was about to head back towards the edge of the trees when a strange, plaintive cry wended its way through the thin air.

"Help, help!"

Flora blinked, her brow slowly furrowing itself into a crease. There was a pause, and then the cry came again, high and reedy.

"_Help, help!" _

"Wha - ," she said, head swivelling. "Help?"

Meanwhile, those gathered around the maps had seen a sight far more unusual than a disappearing village. The royal company could count in single digits the number of other travellers they had met since leaving the Circle – not counting the crowd of nosy tourists within Herring. Yet a dozen yards away, a wagon had emerged from a hitherto unnoticed path in the woods. It was a humble trader's wagon, the back weighted down with canvas-covered goods. Two dwarves sat at the front of the cart, one clutching reins attached to a belligerent-looking mule. Another dwarf sat on the backboard, humming tunelessly to himself and puffing at a long pipe.

The guards turned to face the new arrivals, Ser Gilmore stepping forward and clearing his throat.

"You are in the presence of the King of Ferelden, dwarves!" the knight announced, as the dwarves looked vaguely confused. From the sharp tang of alcohol in the air, it seemed that they had been engaging in some liquor-based merriment on their journeys. The dwarf on the backboard fell flat on his face onto the damp earth, a bottle rolling out from his jerkin.

"Eaahhh!"

"Be at ease," Alistair said hastily, as those gathered around the toppled trunk turned to face the new arrivals. "Greetings. You look about as damp as we do."

"What's your business on the coastal road?" Teagan asked, sliding a nearby stone onto the map to stop it from curling upwards. "We've not run into many other travellers."

"We're booksellers, ser," the dwarf clutching the reins replied, his ginger moustache quivering. "On our way from Denerim to Verchiel. We got a range of books for all tastes – saucy novellas, epic poems, _'istory_ books and great novels."

Wynne raised an eyebrow, her shrewd eyes lighting with interest.

"Do you sell parchment and ink?" she enquired, thinking of her unfinished letter to Irving.

The dwarf with the moustache gave a woeful shrug, the corners of his mouth turning down.

"Eh, many apologies, milady – we're fresh out of parchment and ink, I'm afraid. You got a taste for _litch-er-atchure_, milords?"

"Not particularly," replied Alistair, giving a rueful shrug as he gazed up at the cart. "Though my wife does need new reading material. We've been struggling through some Chantry tracts from the Circle, but they're full of words like _excommunication _and _transubstantiation, _and poor Flo isn't coping very well."

The other dwarf at the front of the wagon gave a throaty chuckle, his rich brown eyes lighting with interest.

"Oh, aye! Which one's your wife? Not this lovely lady, I assume!"

He gestured towards Wynne, who offered a polite and un-amused smile as Alistair shook his head. There followed a pause that lingered strangely in the air. The two dwarves on the front of the cart eyed each other; the one on the ground moved an appraising gaze over the royal company.

Alistair was about to ask if they had any books for children- with large, separated letters – when the oldest dwarf spoke, each word carefully crafted to appear casual.

"So… where's yer wife, then? The queen?"

The king's question died on his tongue, the conversational light fading from his eyes as it was replaced by a steely stare. Beside him, Teagan stood a fraction straighter; fingers moving to the hilt of his blade.

"Why do you ask?" the bann enquired, coldly.

"And do not lie," Zevran added, from where he had stealthily crept up onto the wagon's backboard. "As you have _already_ done about your profession."

The elf sliced at the rope ties attaching the canvas to the wagon; the heavy fabric fell to the muddy ground. Instead of books, the cart was filled with weaponry – axes, pole-arms and blades – in a great tangle of metal. Immediately, their subterfuge was laid bare, the insignia of the Carta painted in crimson on the inside of the wagon.

Alistair inhaled sharply, his pupils shrinking to the size of pinpricks. Even as the dwarves rose to their feet, defiantly drawing wickedly curved blades from their belts, he was unsheathing his own blade. The guards let out a bark of warning, metal singing as they pulled forth weapons.

"You've come for _my _wife?!" the king bellowed as he strode forwards like some avenging scion of Alamarri legend, sword raised and face incensed. _"My wife?!"_

The following skirmish was short and bloody; Zevran had slit the throat of the dwarf feigning drunkenness before he even had time to draw his short-sword. The dwarf with the ginger moustache swung his own blade with moderate skill, but was felled by two foot-long arrows from Ser Gilmore's bow; each one hitting like a punch to the gut and tearing their way deep into muscle-bound flesh.

The eldest dwarf – the one who had enquired ever so casually about Flora's whereabouts – received a swift and brutal thrust between the ribs from Alistair's blade. The king was so angry that he did not angle his blade straight for the heart in a killing blow; instead, the silverite point tore a ragged gash through the dwarf's lung.

Alistair barely noticed, yanking his blade free with a sickening scrape of metal against bone. He was already turning towards the woods, the colour draining from his face as he shouted for his wife.

"Flora! _Flora!" _

The others, leaving carnage strewn at the foot of the wagon, followed the king into the woods, each one desperately calling the queen by all variants of her name.

"Flora!"

"_Florence!?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O NO DWARRRRVES


	134. The Carta Assassin

With adrenaline and terror coursing through his blood like fast-igniting oil, the king crashed through the undergrowth; hares and other small creatures scattering before his single-minded charge. He almost collided with Wynne as they simultaneously rounded a weeping willow; Zevran's tan face drained of richness as he followed in the senior enchanter's wake.

_"There!"_ Wynne said suddenly, pointing towards a nearby circle of trees.

Flora was standing in the centre of a small clearing, looking slightly confused.

"Someone was calling for help," she said, taking a step towards them. "Did you hear anything?"

Shapes moved behind her, flitting between the trees like a swift-moving shadow. Alistair opened his mouth to bellow a warning, preparing to spring forwards as the Theirin lion realised in human flesh. Yet even his battle-honed reflexes were no match for the companions at his side. Before the king could move a muscle Wynne's hand had lifted, an elongated stream of glittering, crystallised light surging from her fingertips. The stream shot over a startled Flora's shoulder and collided with the figure at her back, encasing the dwarf in a sheer coating of ice. The would-be kidnapper was frozen solid mid-lunge, one side of a net clutched in icebound fingers.

The other half of the net fell to the ground, as did the dwarf formerly clutching it. The Carta peon dropped to the moss-covered earth with a dull thud, one of Zevran's slender throwing knives wedged deeply in an eye-socket. Silence settled over the small wood; a contrast to the chaos, clashing metal and bellows that had echoed about the trees only moments prior.

Flora turned around in astonishment, her gaze moving from the frozen assailant to the felled one. She blinked, her mouth opening in a question; then squawked as she was embraced roughly by strong, desperate arms.

"Flora," the king croaked feverishly, his pupils shrunk into pinpricks of panic. "My love –_ Maker's Breath."_

Alistair's handsome face was a mottled grey beneath the olive complexion. His fingers trembled as they dug themselves into the rich navy wool of her tunic, anchoring his fat-bellied wife tightly to him. He bent his head to Flora's far-shorter one, burying his face in the mass of dark crimson hair and inhaling the salt-laced scent of her; feeling the press of their children against his abdomen.

"Maker's Breath. _Thank the Maker."_

Flora clutched him back with equal fervour, her astonished eyes lifting to her companions as they gathered around her. Teagan sheathed his blade with a sigh of relief as he came to an abrupt halt, his gaze settling on the frozen assailant.

"Nets are for fish," observed the queen after a moment, unsure what else to say. "Not for girls."

Alistair let out a choked sound that was half a gasp of relief, and half a sob. He was still holding Flora in an uncomfortably tight clench, his eyes wide and staring.

"Let her breathe, Alistair," Wynne said quietly, watching Flora's face pinken. "She is unharmed."

The king blinked, uncomprehending. Flora squirmed free, sliding her hand down his arm and entwining their fingers. As Alistair felt the pressure against his chest ease, he let out a grunt of distress and pulled his wife back into his embrace. Flora found herself with her face once more pressed into his travel leathers. Abandoning the pursuit of freedom, she nestled her nose into the hard muscle of Alistair's chest and inhaled his distinctive masculine scent.

While the king continued to reassure himself that his queen and babes were unharmed, Teagan had gone to berate the guards; murmuring his displeasure in quiet and steely tones. Zevran sauntered across to the frozen figure, his dark eyes glittering with dangerous promise. The dwarf was frozen solid within the icy prison, his mouth open and curling beard encased in white; fists still grasping the rope of the net.

"Wynne, you are an _astonishingly_ gifted woman," the elf murmured, sliding a fingertip down the frigid cheek. "A far more elegant solution than the one I provided."

This was in reference to the other dwarf, who lay bleeding on the earth at their feet. A dagger had been wedged so deeply within his skull that the tip was buried in the moss.

"Ah, but there is a time and a place for brute force," the senior enchanter replied, lifting her skirts as she stepped delicately over the bloodied figure. "I thought that we might desire to _question _one of the wretches before disposing of him."

"A wise idea," said Zevran, his lip curling in disgust as he gazed at the creature that had tried to capture their new queen. "I eagerly await the… _defrosting."_

Inch by inch Alistair's grip on his wife loosened, his frantic heart slowing from a chaotic race to a more measured, yet still rapid, beat. Flora peered up at the underside of his bronze-stubbled chin, noticing a vein pulsing in his throat. Standing on her toes, she pressed her lips gently to his neck; her fingers clutching the sleeves of his tunic.

"I'm alright," she whispered, anxiously. _"We're _alright."

"But that was _too_ close," Alistair croaked, one trembling palm cupping her face. "Maker's Breath – if we'd been a few moments later, they would have got you in the net and _hauled you off – Maker- "_

The colour drained from his face and he swayed on the spot; aghast at the prospect of his heavily pregnant wife being dragged bodily across the ground. Flora looked around desperately for some aid – she was certain that she would not be able to support the weight of her six foot and three inch husband. Fortunately, Ser Gilmore and Zevran stepped forward to grip the king's elbows; steering him over to sit on a low tree stump.

"Flo – _Flora- " _Alistair protested, his head swivelling in the direction of his wife. "Stay with me."

Flora followed in his wake, kneeling down on the mossy ground beneath her hunched-over husband. Alistair reached out blindly, his fingers gripping a thick clump of oxblood hair. Flora, trying not to squeak, let her chin rest on his knee. Gradually, the king began to calm down, his hand stroking compulsively over his queen's head; taking comfort in the soft, familiar cloud of oxblood hair against his calloused palm. She nestled her cheek into his thigh, feeling the damp earth seep through her leggings.

Teagan returned from berating the guards and immediately appraised the situation. He strode across to his nephew and put a hand on Alistair's shoulder, leaning down to murmur that the scouts had performed a quick reconnaissance of the woods. They had found no further sign of Carta presence – it seemed as though the wagon and its passengers had been the only vehicle involved in the abduction attempt.

As Alistair received this reassurance, the fear began to crystallise into fury; storm-clouds darker than any of those in the sky above gathering on his face. He caressed the back of his wife's neck one final time, then rose to his feet. His eyes swung across to the frozen dwarf, the pupils shrinking with steely menace as they honed in on their target. There was none of the usual kindness to be found in the hazel irises, only a hard and unforgiving focus.

"Wynne," he said softly, taking measured steps across the wooded clearing towards his prey. "How would you recommend we thaw this fellow? I've a few… _questions_ that I'd like to ask him."

Wynne finished checking Flora over – the queen was physically unharmed, if a little shaken – and turned to face Alistair. Without a word, she lifted her staff from her back and held it aloft. The head blazed with heat, burning with an ochre flame so authentic that only the lack of smoke gave it away as arcane in origin.

Alistair nodded tightly, his fingers running compulsively over the hilt of his sword.

"Do it."

The king began to pace back and forth before the frozen figure, his boots sinking into the mulch of damp soil and fallen leaves. Wynne held her staff out at the base of the iced figure; moisture beading on the frigid surface as it began to defrost.

Zevran reached down an elegant hand to Flora, who was still kneeling on the ground.

"Up we get, _querida," _he murmured, gripping her fingers and hauling her upright with a grunt. _"Oof! Mi pequeña calabaza."_

Flora sat down on the tree stump, patting her stomach in response to a wriggle from within. The babies been roused by the shouting and commotion from earlier – with only a thin sliver of flesh separating them from the cool autumnal air, they had heard every bellow.

"Alright, poppet?" Teagan murmured as he passed by the tree-stump. "Quite a scare you gave us there."

_Quite a scare for the twins, _Flora thought to herself, feeling them squirm. _This dwarf woke them from their nap! _

The more she thought about this, the angrier the queen got. If it had been _her alone _whom the dwarf had tried to ensnare, that would have been one thing – but, for another few weeks, _her _also included _her children. _The thought of her two little creatures – whom she had dutifully protected since being made aware of their existence– being thrust into danger, caused a deep boil of uncharacteristic rage to begin brewing inside her belly.

Wynne continued to _defrost _the dwarf with her staff held aloft; the frozen figure positioned at the centre of the company like some religious effigy. Alistair continued to pace around the unfortunate ruffian like a Mabari circling a robber, fingers compulsively wandering over the hilt of his blade. Zevran sat perched on a nearby boulder, very still and yet poised to spring forward at the slightest movement from the melting dwarf. Ser Gilmore and the guards had salvaged all they could from the Carta wagon, stripping it bare of wheel axles and steering rods. They were now stationed at various points on the hillside, keeping an eye out for any more unwelcome travellers.

Teagan, after building up a small pyramid of branches and kindling, had started a fire. Although he was a firm believer in the power of a stiff drink – he had already passed around a flask of gin – he knew that alcohol made their queen nauseous in her current condition. He had therefore retrieved a copper pot and a pouch of peppermint leaves from their own wagon; then begun to measuredly prepare some tea.

Flora was still sitting on the tree stump, her fine-boned face cool and expressionless. Teagan put a hand on her shoulder as he offered her the cup, hoping that she was not in shock. She gave a soft grunt of thanks, taking the steaming cup and inhaling the sweet, minty scent. The babies had gone back to sleep within her belly; yet their resumed calm was not shared by their mother.

_I could have fallen when they netted me, _Flora thought, recalling Alistair's lamentation from earlier. _It could have hurt the twins. Or worse!_

"Now, Alistair," Wynne said with a note of warning in her tone, lifting the blazing staff head from the melting dwarf. "There's a lot that can be learned from this creature… if he stays_ alive_ long enough to find it out."

Alistair reluctantly slid his sword back into its sheath, a seething anger clouding his handsome features.

"He _will_ die by sunset," he replied, keeping his voice steady with some difficulty. "But… not until we've asked him some questions."

Inch by inch, the dwarf defrosted. The ice crystals on his beard melted, dripping down his chin and onto the front of his leather tunic. All of a sudden, he let out a choked gasp; blinking dazedly and flexing frostbitten fingers. The net fell to the damp leaves with a muffled thud.

"Wha- " he croaked, swaying on feet numbed to the bone. "Whaa- "

Alistair inhaled unsteadily, his hands clenching into fists with the effort of restraining the instinctual urge to lunge.

"No tricks," warned the elf, sidling forwards like a predator sighting prey. "I could kill you faster than I could _threaten _to kill you."

The dwarf sputtered out air that had been trapped in his lungs for a half-candle; the vessels in his eyes broken and bloodied. He looked around at his adversaries, a sly lip curling as he assessed the situation.

A branch swung its way from nowhere, hitting the dwarf squarely in the face with a splintering of wood. The dwarf spat out several teeth, and blinked three times, increasingly slowly. The next moment, he toppled backwards into the damp leaves, knocked out cold.

The company turned in astonishment towards their queen, who was red-faced from the effort of wielding a branch nearly as tall as she was. Fuming, Flora let the improvised club drop to the soil; outrage writ starkly across her elegantly-hewn Cousland features.

"How DARE you!" she screeched with the fury of a fish-wife cheated in the market. "How _dare _you?!"

The dwarf was unconscious and could not hear her. The company stared, gobsmacked.

"Aaaaagh!"

Uncaring that her opponent was prostrate on the leaves the queen stormed across the earth like an avenging fury from Alamarri legend, and swung one unwieldy booted foot into the dwarf's crotch. This resulted in a distinct _crunching _sound, and all the men present involuntarily winced.

Puffing slightly, Flora stepped back and surveyed her handiwork with a vague air of approval. Alistair closed his gaping jaw with some effort, then strode forwards and put an arm around his wife's shoulders.

"Nice swing, darling," he said proudly, pressing his lips to the top of her head. "And that was quite the kick."

"Florence! Was that really _necessary?"_ Wynne enquired, trying and failing to look disapproving.

"Yes," replied Flora, inspecting the red marks that the bark had left on her palms.

Zevran let out a cackle of delight.

_"Mi sirenita!" _he crowed, stepping over the prostrate dwarf and kissing the queen on both cheeks. "You are so _sexy_ when you are being ferocious. _Mi tigresa."_

The queen exhaled unsteadily, tilting her head to receive the affection.

"Well," said Teagan diplomatically, failing to hide a smile. "Since it appears that we're to be here a while longer – until our guest wakes – shall I start on dinner?"

The royal company made themselves more comfortable within the wooded clearing. The fire was bolstered, several hares brought out from the wagon and cooking apparatus set up. A vegetable pottage was heated up for the queen, along with a side-dish of mushrooms.

They ate without ceremony, sitting cross legged on blankets strewn over the damp mulch. The fire crackled merrily, spitting and smoking; the delicious smell of roasted rabbit drifting through the damp air. In the foreground – within close proximity to four different blades – the dwarf lay slumped on the leaves, a lump the size of a plum swelling on his forehead.

For the first time, Alistair could not concentrate fully on his dinner. His restless gaze kept returning to the dwarf's face; each time, the hazel irises would darken a shade with barely suppressed anger. To his annoyance, he did not have enough hands to grip his wife's fingers, hold a fork and also grip the hilt of his sword.

Flora's anger had drained away; she was focused firmly on her dinner. The stew contained a variety of interesting vegetables, herbed and peppered, the mushrooms were raw enough for her peculiar tastes.

"Do you remember much of Highever, Florence?" Wynne asked, dabbing her lips delicately with a square of linen. "I know that your memories were restored, but the recollections of a child are patchy at best."

"And Flo was just a baby when she was at Highever," Alistair replied, through a mouthful of rabbit. "How old were you when you were sent away, darling? Four, five?"

Mid-swallow, Flora held up five fingers.

"I do remember a little bit. I remember a… a place with tall towers," she said softly, searching the little-used recesses of her mind. "And it was always full of people. Hundreds of people."

_And dogs. Packs of dogs, wandering the hallways and lying beneath tables. _

"And dogs," the queen continued, after a moment. "And an old woman who chased me up and down the corridors. I don't know who it was? My mother?"

"Probably a nanny of some sort," Wynne corrected, casting another glance towards the limp dwarf.

"I'm looking forward to seeing your brothers again, _mi florita," _said Zevran, twirling a throwing blade expertly between his fingers. "Especially Finian. Do you think he will be at Highever yet?"

Flora was about to explain that Finian would be at _Amaranthine – _his own arling – when Teagan spoke up, his head ducking in a nod.

"Oh aye, he should be."

The queen looked astonished, although she was the only one in the company to react with surprise. After shooting a quick glance at his uncle, Alistair kept on eating, swallowing in measured mouthfuls. Wynne busied herself with dabbing at a spot on the sleeve of her robe, her brow creasing. Nobody wanted to confess that they had been quietly discussing the possibility of Flora remaining at Highever until she gave birth – rather than returning to Denerim, as was the original plan. When this option was tentatively raised before, Flora had been inexplicably horrified; insisting that they return to the capital before she went into labour. On seeing her alarm, Alistair had not pressed her further.

Yet after the revelation about the twins – and the realisation that the birth might occur several weeks earlier than originally estimated – the rest of the company had quietly conferred once again; coming to the collective decision that it would be far better for them to stay at Highever until the babes were born. Alistair had not yet broached this with his wife; but, in anticipation of the birth, Finian had already made his way to the teyrnir's capital.

Flora was about to ask why her brother had left Amaranthine, when Zevran let out a low hiss of warning under his breath. The dwarf was beginning to stir, eyelids fluttering and a soft groan emerging from his throat.

The queen's companions acted swift as ever. By the time that the dwarf's left eye had opened – the right was swollen luridly shut – he had the tips of several blades pointed at his throat, alongside Wynne's ominously gleaming staff.

"The Carta must be running low on applicants, if it employs amateurs such as yourselves," Zevran murmured, tracing the edge of his blade with a menacing finger. "We have some enquiries to make of you, _lombriz."_

"Ugh," the dwarf croaked from his prostrate position, dried blood from a shattered nose staining his beard with mottled crimson patches. He reached up with broad, calloused fingers to touch the swelling on his forehead, the broken nostril, the blackened eye; then inhaled sharply as he tried to sit up.

"Yeh've broken me banger," the dwarf wheezed, in agonised outrage. "Yeh little bitch!"

Despite the immediate outrage of her companions, Flora was not bothered by the insult. Conversely, she was delighted by the implication that she had ruined his manhood.

"Ahahahaha!"

Alistair, on the other hand, now threw off his straining composure with joyful abandon; seizing the dwarf's rudeness as an opportunity to release his barely-suppressed fury. Letting his sword tumble to the damp earth, he grabbed the spluttering dwarf by the neck and swung him bodily across the clearing. The next moment, the dwarf found himself thrust up against a tree with an incensed king bellowing a stream of white-hot obscenities into his face. The only words discernible amidst the tirade were _whoreson, ball-less whelp _and_ my wife!?_ _My queen?!_

"You may wish to intervene before the wretch's brains are scrambled irrevocably," Wynne observed after several moments, watching the dwarf's bloodied teeth fall to the autumnal leaves like spring rain. "If you still desire to extract information from him, that is."

Teagan nodded, stepping forward with a slightly wary look on his face; as though approaching a semi-wild Mabari.

"Alistair?"

Alistair made no sign that he had heard his uncle, driving a furious punch into the dwarf's fat-padded gut. The would-be abductor let out a wheezing groan, bloodshot eyes bulging.

The bann glanced sideways at Flora, a silent plea in his gaze.

"Alistair," she repeated, her commoner's voice soft and slightly hoarse. "Husband?"

As the bann had hoped, the sound of the queen's voice easily broke through the king's red-mist fury. Alistair stopped mid-way through yet another punch, his head swivelling around to where Flora stood in the damp leaves. Blinking, he let the dwarf drop with a heavy thud to the ground, striding across the mulch towards her.

"My sweet wife," he replied, dazedly. "Are you alright?"

As was his custom, the king reached out to caress both his wife's cheek and the full mound of her stomach; checking that both were unharmed.

Meanwhile, Zevran and Ser Gilmore had darted forward with a length of rope retrieved from the wagon. With quick efficiency, the dwarf was bound against the tree. All the while, the Carta agent shot a malevolent glower at his captors; from the one bloodshot eye that still worked.

"Yeh should've finished me then," he croaked, quite clearly without a shred of remorse. "Ain't man enough to finish the job, eh?"

Alistair ignored the jibe, focused solely on his wife's upturned face. A scowling Teagan strode forwards, one hand on the hilt of his blade.

"Don't think that you'll be leaving these woods alive," the younger Guerrin said, a dangerous edge to the words. "Your clumsy attempt to lay hands on the Queen of Ferelden was treasonous. But the _manner _of your death will be decided based on how _cooperative _you are over the next half-candle."

The dwarf let out a throaty, wet chuckle. A thin strand of pinkish-white spittle ran between shards of broken teeth into the greying beard.

"You're jokin'," he retorted, derisively. "I'm _Carta._ I ain't tellin' you nothin'."

The bann exhaled, exasperated.

"We don't have time for this," he said over his shoulder, after a quick glance upwards. The sun was lowering itself with increasing rapacity towards the western horizon, the pale grey sky beginning to infuse with streaks of apricot and rose. "We need to be at the inn by nightfall."

Zevran and Alistair looked towards each other at the exact same moment, coal-dark meeting ripe hazel; different in hue but identical in intent. The elf inclined his head silently, a focused, almost _predatory_ mask settling over his gestures. As he advanced towards the dwarf, his feet moved silently over the damp leaves, and he seemed to _glide _rather than step.

"Give me a half-candle alone with him, my lords," he murmured, fingers dancing over the hilts of his blades. "I will extract all that is useful from this creature's shrivelled brain."

The dwarf fell quiet, eyeing this new adversary with a curled, derisive lip.

"Ha! A knife-ear?"

Zevran smiled, his teeth glittering in the gathering dusk.

_"Sí. _Alistair, you may wish to take the wagons on the road ahead. I believe our accommodation lies just over the brow of the next hill. Tether my horse to a tree."

_Our carina ought not to hear what I will be doing to this creature, _was the silent augmentation of this statement. Alistair, meeting the elf's glance, understood full well his meaning. The king returned to his queen, slinging an arm around her shoulder while simultaneously turning her away from the bound dwarf.

"Let's go, sweetheart," he murmured, brushing a strand of deep red hair behind her ear. "Leave Zevran to it."

Flora twisted her head just as they left the clearing, overhearing the elf give a dark cackle as he withdrew a pair of gleaming blades from his belt.

"So, you are Carta. Well – in a past life – I was _Crow. _And, _most_ unfortunately for you, I have an _excellent _memory."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: YEH'VE BROKEN ME BANGER! Aahahahaha


	135. The Flagon And Blessing

The scouts had already prepared the horses and carts for departure from the woods. The sky was darkening with each quarter-hour passed, the drizzle had abated but the temperature was falling rapidly. The Carta wagon was laid bare before them, the tattered canvas cover hanging down to the damp grass. One dwarf lay near its wheel; bone-white in a coagulated brown puddle, with a gaping wound cut from ear to ear. The other lay contorted some distance away – Alistair's furious sword-thrust to the stomach had not resulted in a quick death. The final dwarf rested face-down on the gravel, two puncture wounds marking where Ser Gilmore's arrows had passed clean through his chest.

As the royal company emerged from the tree-line, Flora's eyes widened, her pale gaze moving from one corpse to the other.

"There were three more of them?" she breathed, noticing the crossed-ax Carta motif daubed on the inside of the wagon. "I didn't realise."

"Aye," confirmed Teagan, rolling up the map and sliding it into its protective case. "Five in total."

Alistair, whose arm was still firmly gripping his wife's shoulders, turned her away from the mutilated bodies.

"I don't want you to worry about them for a single moment," he murmured into her ear, nudging her gently towards the patient bay mare. "Promise me, my love. You have to focus on gathering your strength for the birth."

"I'm not worried," Flora replied immediately, her eyes not leaving Alistair's face as he lifted her up onto the saddle with a soft grunt of effort. "I'm with you. And Zevran, and Wynne, and Bann Teagan… and everyone else."

The _Flagon and Blessing _was a mid-sized tavern frequented by travellers passing through the teyrnir of Highever. Nestled within a dip in the landscape that provided some protection from the biting coastal wind, it had a good sized stable, and a small apple orchard to the rear. As befitted an inn located in this most northern of teyrnirs, much of the décor was painted in Highever colours – pale green and rich navy – and a round stained-glass window above the main door depicted the Cousland laurel.

The innkeeper – a rotund, taciturn northerner – shuffled his family out to greet the royal company as they arrived. Two identical little girls with braids and streaming noses peered up at the king in awe; Alistair smiled benevolently back down at them, lifting his queen carefully to the gravel as a stable-lad scuttled forwards.

"My wife is having twins," he told them, as their eyes widened at being acknowledged by such a grand and lofty figure. "In a few weeks time. Although I think we're going to have a boy and a girl."

Flora gave a nod of confirmation – her alternating cravings matched exactly with Herring folklore.

While Alistair checked over the hooves of their horses, Teagan drew the innkeeper aside and lowered his voice.

"Who else is staying at the inn tonight?"

The innkeeper thought for a moment, half-watching his sons unload the baggage from the wagon.

"A man and his newborn babe," he replied after a moment. "A newlywed pair of elves. An' an old lady on her way back from visitin' her nephew in Skingle – she makes the trip every few months."

Teagan exhaled in relief: _no dwarves. _

Meanwhile, Flora was peering up curiously at the Cousland wreath emblazoned in bright glass overhead. Even now – over nine months after the revelation that _she _was a Cousland – it still took her a moment to associate the famous symbol with herself.

Beside her, Wynne gave a yawn. Flora turned and gazed up at her oldest companion, her eyes growing wide and anxious. There came a wriggling from within her stomach and she patted her belly absentmindedly; reaching out to slide her other arm through Wynne's.

"Wynne, you look _tired," _Flora breathed, rhythmically squeezing the senior enchanter's elbow as the last of the baggage was carried past them. "Are you? Tired?"

"I am a little weary, yes," replied the mage, the shadows accentuating the lines beneath her eyes. It had not been easy journeying over the past few days. Despite the well-maintained roads, the terrain was rarely flat and the weather had been unforgiving for those not used to the constant bite of a northern wind.

Flora inhaled unsteadily, appalled at the prospect of her eldest companion in any sort of discomfort.

"Come inside!" she ordered, wrapping her fingers within Wynne's and giving them a firm tug. "I'll make you some tea."

"Child," chided Wynne, allowing herself to be guided up the wooden step and over the threshold of the tavern. "You look _unduly _alarmed. I assure you, there is nothing wrong – nothing that can't be rectified by seven hours sleep on a decent mattress!"

The interior of the tavern possessed a faded elegance – at one point, it must have made exceptionally good coin. A mosaic pattern was studded above a great stone hearth, the booths were padded with bottle-green velvet, and the furniture was made from good-quality oak. Only on closer inspection was the wear of age visible – several mosaic tiles were chipped away, the green velvet was mottled with thin patches, and the legs of the tables had been riddled with woodworm.

There were only a few other patrons within the tavern; an old woman asleep face-down on a far table, and a young elf couple sitting hand-in-hand in a booth. They were far too preoccupied with each other to notice the new arrivals, new brass rings on their fingers glinting in the firelight.

Flora led Wynne straight over to the circular, low table before the hearth. It was surrounded by several elegantly embroidered and overstuffed armchairs, of the sort that were common within the Circle.

"Sit, please!"

"Florence, I'm _fine- "_

"_Sit, please!"_

Snorting, the senior enchanter settled herself within one of the armchairs. To her slight embarrassment, Wynne immediately felt the ache in her bones abate; the saddle-sore muscles sinking into the plump cushions. Flora then went scuttling off to find a footstool – or a suitable substitute.

Alistair and Teagan entered shortly afterwards; Ser Gilmore having taken the first watch outside the door and several guards opting to sleep within the stables to keep a closer eye on the road. After their run in with the Carta wagon earlier, they were taking no chances.

Teagan removed a coin-purse from his tunic and headed straight towards the bar, already eyeing the impressive collection of kegs propped beneath the polished wood. Alistair shrugged off his travelling cloak, hanging it up to dry on a hook before joining Wynne before the hearth.

"Where's – oh," he said, spotting Flora shuffling over with a tower of toppling cushions in her arms. "Ah, sweetheart – let me take those!"

"They're for Wynne's feet," puffed Flora, swivelling. "I'm going to get the tea things."

"My love, shall I- "

"No, thank you. I'll be fine!"

Alistair watched his wife make her way determinedly towards where Teagan waited at the bar. He swung his gaze once more around the tavern – pleased to see that the innkeeper had bolted the main door, as requested – and then cast his eye over the other patrons of the tavern. The newlywed elves were now entwined in each other's arms; the old lady was snoring at even greater volume.

"I don't expect that we'll be ambushed by dwarves here," Wynne said gently, her shrewd, pale blue gaze accurately assessing Alistair's concern. "Try and relax, dear."

"When I get my hands on that whoreson, Howe," Alistair replied, in dark undertones. "What Zevran is currently doing to that dwarf is going to look like an- an… an _Antivan massage."_

At the bar, Teagan collected several tankards and a cup of cow's milk; gesturing to the barmaid that he would also be paying for Flora's requests.

"One kettle, please," said Flora, as the bann raised an auburn eyebrow.

The queen duly received the kettle, headed back towards the hearth; then returned moments later.

"Some water also, please."

As she waited for the woman to ladle well-water into the kettle, the distinctive grizzle of a very young baby echoed from the rooms behind the tavern. Flora's head spun around so quickly that her own ponytail whipped her in the face; instinctively swivelling towards the noise.

_Concentrate, Flora, _she thought sternly to herself, turning back to receive the weighty kettle. _That's not your baby. _

_It sounds hungry._

Returning to her companions, Flora busied herself making the tea while the others conversed quietly. The innkeeper moved around the chamber, lighting candles and adding wood to the hearth; warding off the encroaching veil of night.

"It's times like this when I miss our nightingale," said Wynne, receiving her steaming cup with a smile. "Thank you, child- you _do _make a lovely cup of tea."

"The only thing I learnt in the Circle," Flora whispered in Alistair's ear, as the king drew her onto his lap.

Alistair smiled, pressing his lips to her cheek while surreptitiously inhaling the sea-salt scent of her hair.

"Leliana? Aye," replied Teagan, taking a gulp of northern bitter and grimacing. "That voice could summon birds from the trees."

"Finian once said that _my_ voice could raise the dead," Flora offered, gravely. "I don't think it was a compliment, though."

Alistair stifled his snort in his wife's shoulder, while Wynne unsuccessfully hid a smile. After the grim events of the afternoon, everybody was relieved that the conversation had taken on a more light-hearted tone.

"Alistair, I've heard you singing at Chantry mass before," continued the mage. "You've got a nice tenor. You could regale us with a song!"

"Oh, no," replied Alistair, immediately. "I don't want a reputation as the _king who sings. _What if word gets out? The Empress Celene could ask me to serenade her during our first diplomatic meeting. Then – knowing me – my mind would go blank, and I'd resort to either _Two-Ten Ton Kegs, _or all six verses of the rude version of _Warden Flora."_

"Seven verses," corrected Flora, her mouth full of currant bun.

"_Seven? _Did they add a new one?"

"Mm," replied his wife, swallowing. "It's not very accurate, though. I'm not that _bendy."_

Alistair let out a great chuckle, gripping his wife by the thigh to make sure she wasn't shaken from his lap. Delighted that she had made him laugh, Flora beamed. It was the first proper _wide_ smile that Alistair had seen from her since the disastrous visit to Herring, and he was equally gratified.

"My love," he murmured, lifting her chin with a thumb and gazing at her face. "I swear to the Maker, you have the most beautiful smile in Thedas. Look, uncle – wouldn't you agree?"

Alistair tilted Flora's face gently by the chin until it was turned towards Teagan.

"Aye," Teagan replied, gamely. "She's a flower."

Flora crossed her eyes and the bann laughed, leaning back in his chair and taking a long gulp of his ale.

A short while later, the newlywed elves had retired, giggling, to their bedchamber; the old woman was roused after several attempts and steered into her own dwelling. Outside, the moon sat, round and white as a wren's egg in a nest of cloud, wreathed by sparkling celestial strings. The northern wind had been tamed by the oppressive pressure of an incoming storm; a strange, anticipatory calm hung in the air.

Within the locked and barred tavern, the royal company were still settled into the overstuffed armchairs before the hearth; waiting for the return of the elf. Wynne had retired to her chamber, making the excuse that she wished to add another several inches to her latest missive to Irving. The fire crackled low in the hearth, faint curls of smoke drifting lazily up the chimney.

Teagan was sharpening his belt-dagger, sliding a whetstone methodically up and down the sleek, silverite edge. Alistair leaned back against the faded velvet, plucking idly at where the stuffing poked through the worn fabric. A dozing Flora was sprawled inelegantly on her husband's lap, her head against his shoulder and her bare feet dangling over the armrest.

"Did you see the latest letter from Mac Tir?" the king said after a moment, quiet enough to not disturb his snoring wife. "He's off to Blackmarsh to investigate… what we talked about the other day."

"The missing Warden?" Teagan replied, then hastily lowered his voice at a frantic gesture from Alistair. "Ah, sorry- I know you don't want to let her know about the… _situation." _

Alistair grimaced, reflexively touching the top of Flora's head.

"I _will_ tell Flo," he said, as Teagan leaned forward to stoke up the fire. "Once the babies are born and she's recovered. I won't have her worrying about it now."

"She _is _the Hero of Ferelden, Alistair. The ender of the Fifth Blight."

"She's _my wife," _retorted Alistair, stubbornly. "I have to protect her."

Teagan smiled at his nephew, replacing the poker and returning his attentions to his blade.

"I understand, son."

Just then, there came a knock at the door; heavier and more purposeful than the elf's characteristic light clatter. Alistair swore under his breath, clambering to his feet with his yawning wife bundled in his arms. Teagan also rose - albeit at a more measured pace - his hand moving preparedly to the hilt of his blade.

"It's me, my lords," came a muffled, familiar voice through the door. "Gilmore."

Alistair sunk back into the armchair with a low exhalation, while Teagan began to make his way to the tavern entrance. After sliding back the bolts and lifting the heavy bar, the door was opened and Ser Gilmore entered; his boots muddied and cheeks flushed.

"The scouts and I have searched for two miles in each direction, just as you ordered, King Alistair," he said, the tiredness running raw in his voice. "No evidence of camps, wagons or dwarves to be sighted."

"Thank you," replied Teagan, seeing that Alistair was still in the throes of adrenaline. "Come and refresh yourself- there's some ale here, as well as bread and cheese."

"I'm going to take Flo to our bedchamber," the king said at last, inhaling deeply in an effort to slow his racing heart. "If you're still up when Zev gets in, could you send him to me? I don't think I'll be getting much sleep tonight – the vessels of my body are jangling like lute strings."

"Aye, son."

With one final glance at the front entrance to ensure that it had been locked fast, Alistair carried his snoring wife towards the door that led to the guest chambers. The tavern-keeper's wife hastened to open the door for him, apologising in an undertone about the presence of _stairs._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Ooohh poor old Alistair is definitely going to be going grey by the time they return to Denerim! One thing that I thought was interesting (and tragically was not the result of careful planning)… was that this progress is following Flora's life in reverse – from the Circle, to Herring, then back to Highever. I'm so excited to write about what Highever and Castle Cousland is like!


	136. Alleviating the King’s Tension

To Alistair's slight dismay, there was indeed a flight of twelve steps that led to the upper storey of the inn. Reflecting grimly that at least this was more advantageous from a _defensive _standpoint, he began the ascent with his snoring wife in his arms. Flora woke up on the sixth step, saw the floor lurching dizzyingly below her, and went back to sleep.

The upper floor of the tavern consisted of six chambers branching off a wood-panelled corridor; evenly spaced with three on each side. The passage was inadequately lit by a single, albeit impressive candelabra consisting of interwoven antlers.

The chamber ascribed to the royal couple was located at the far end of the corridor. It had been marked by the scout who had brought up the baggage, the doorknob festooned with one of the crimson ribbons that had been produced in their thousands during the latter months of the Fifth Blight. Reminiscent of Flora's high, oxblood ponytail; they had become a symbol of support for the Warden-Commander during her endeavours against the Darkspawn. Soldiers had tied crimson ribbons around their lances; they were fastened to horse's bridles and tucked into armour.

Now that the Blight was over, the ribbon had become an emblem for the queen herself. On the royal weddings g day, crimson ribbons had been tied to lamp-posts and woven through railings; little girls had worn them in their hair and little boys had thrown folded rosettes before the horses. In recent months Flora - who felt fraudulent wearing her hair in the high ponytail now that she was no longer leading armies – had taken to wearing the ribbon in a bow at the nape of her neck instead.

Alistair shuffled down the passageway, gripping a softly snoring Flora in both arms. He passed a chamber that echoed with frantically creaking bedsprings, which he assumed was occupied by the newlywed elves. Sprigs of holly were tucked into the wall-sconces, giving off a sharp, bright scent.

Awkwardly, the king swivelled the knob and used a knee to shove their own door open; plucking the ribbon free as he did so. The chamber beyond was bathed in hearth-light, and dominated by a vast four-poster bedhung with faded plum-coloured hangings. The tavern keeper had clearly attempted to add some _regal garnishes _to the standard bedchamber. A moth-eaten bearskin was draped grandly over the bedding, a small bowl of marzipan fruits was placed on a side-table, and two battered armchairs had been hauled up from the tavern and placed before the hearth.

Alistair let his yawning wife gently down on the bearskin, striding over to the window and pulling the shutters closed. On discovering that there was no lock, he used his own belt to strap the two wooden shutters together. Once the window was secured, he crossed the room to the main door, and turned the iron key in the lock until he heard it click. Not satisfied, he headed to the dresser and began to shove it towards the doorway.

Over on the bed Flora, woken by the scraping of wood, rolled over and almost had a heart attack as she came face to face with the stuffed bear head. Once her breathing returned to normal, she watched a sweating Alistair position the dresser before the doorway.

"You're barracuda-ing us in?" she asked, pushing herself upright on the mattress and rubbing her nose with her sleeve.

"Mm," Alistair replied breathlessly, stepping back and sucking a splinter from his thumb as he surveyed his handiwork. "A _barricade_ against dwarves with nefarious intent, darling."

Although his tone was deliberately light, there was a note of raw worry running through the words. Flora eyed him for a moment, rummaging through her leather pack for her nightgown.

"I think what happened earlier would have sent a message to the Carta," she said, unlacing her tunic. "That we aren't to be messed with."

Alistair let out an unconvinced grunt, casting one final glance at the improvised blockade across the doorway. Pouring himself an ale, he gulped it down with a trembling hand. Flora watched him thoughtfully, thrusting her arms through the sleeves of her striped, Theirin-crested nightshirt.

"Well, I'm not afraid," she said, honestly. "I'm with all of you."

Alistair let out a heavy sigh, sinking into one of the armchairs before the fire.

"I know, my love. Still, I'll feel a lot better when Howe is locked in the dungeons beneath Denerim Castle."

_Or, when his head is firmly planted beneath my boot, _he thought grimly to himself.

Flora buttoned up the ugly mustard-coloured dressing gown, noticing that one of the sleeves had now frayed almost up to the elbow. Feeling a squirm from within her belly, she heaved herself to her feet and padded across the room. Perching on her husband's knee, she put an arm around his neck. She could feel his thigh quivering restless beneath her; his eyes darting between the window and the door; his heart pulsing quick and anxious within the strong confines of his chest.

"Here, sweetheart."

Wanting to distract himself, Alistair tied the crimson ribbon carefully in a bow at the nape of Flora's neck, tucking back stray strands of hair.

"There, my beauty."

She smiled at him, and his gaze softened; the hazel irises bruising to a tender amber. With an arm secure around Flora's waist, Alistair bent forward and nuzzled his face into the swell of her belly, feeling a nudge in response to the pressure. Unfortunately, the squirm of his children only made the king more agitated; his grip tightening possessively on his burgeoning family.

"Maker's Breath, Lola. It was a close call today."

Flora sighed to herself, feeling his breath quick and anxious against her collarbone. Alistair's fingers were wandering over her leg, tapping repetitive, thoughtless rhythms against her linen-clad thigh. She reached up and tilted her husband's face with her own nail-bitten fingers, admiring the strong jut of his jaw and the proud line of his nose. Impulsively, she pressed her lips into the beard-stubble; then nuzzled her face against the chiselled hollow of his cheek.

"Mmm- "

"Mmm, gorgeous girl?"

"_Mm."_

Flora clarified her point by kissing a ragged line along his jaw, breathing in the scent of ale and wood-smoke. Alistair reached up to caress the back of her head, cupping her neck with gentle fingers.

"_You're _beautiful," she whispered, sliding a small hand into the part-unbuttoned neckline of his shirt. Her palm wandered greedily over the hard banded muscle below, feeling the swollen pectoral ridge, and stroking the tightly packed abdominals. With each button she unfastened, more of the king's broad, impressively-hewn chest was revealed, a rich olive in tone and sporting curls of gilded hair. "Mmmm, crab-cakes."

Amused, Alistair leaned back and let his wife grope him with unashamed fervour; her pupils blown wide with desire as she felt the iron-bound muscle of his stomach.

"Having fun, darling?" he asked, watching Flora stroke the line of downy hair that disappeared into his breeches.

Flora peered up at him through her eyelashes, the full lips parted and a slight bloom on her cheeks. There was an openly wanton edge to her gaze that made Alistair's breeches feel uncomfortably tight.

"Mm, lots," she whispered, her fingers dropping to the waistline of his trousers.

The caress of Alistair's hand wavered, the breath caught in his throat like a fish in the net. Temporarily forgetting to inhale, he watched her unfasten the three small buttons that held his breeches closed.

"F- Flo- ," he croaked, as a slender hand went exploring. _"Maker's Breath."_

The corner of Flora's full mouth curled upwards – the sensuous, hereditary ripeness that had once gained Bryce Cousland a rake's reputation before the teyrn was tamed by the Sea Wolf.

As his wife's fingers grasped their rapidly stiffening prize, Alistair reached up a thumb and tested the plumpness of her lower lip, the air drawn erratically into his lungs.

"This pout kept me awake for hours when we slept on separate bedrolls," he murmured, leaning back in the armchair to allow her hand more freedom to stroke. "You've got the sexiest mouth in Ferelden, baby."

"We didn't sleep on separate bedrolls for long," Flora recalled, slightly breathless from the constant movement of her hand.

Alistair let out a throaty laugh, admiring the fullness of his wife's breast against the mustard wool.

"We were sleeping together long before we ever made love," he reminded her, recalling close-entwined limbs and tightly clasped fingers. "I'd never slept so peaceful in my life, even though we were in the middle of a Blight."

Flora smiled up at him, leaning forwards to press her lips to his cheek. Tongue moistening her mouth in preparation, she then eased herself carefully down onto the rug; guided by Alistair's strong arm. She took a moment to find a comfortable position, adjusting her belly until it rested on her thighs.

"Maker," the king breathed unsteadily, watching his queen lick her lips with shameless need as she knelt before him. "I'm the envy of every man in Thed- "

His words ended in a strangled croak as the infamously sulky Cousland lips wrapped themselves around him; immediately setting about their work.

Some time later, Alistair slumped half-senseless with pleasure in the armchair as his wife's dark red head continued to bob diligently between his thighs. The cords of his neck stood out as he gulped down air, the curls nestled at his pelvis were damp with sweat. Soft, guttural moans escaped his throat; each one absorbed into the woodsmoke-scented shadow.

Outside in the corridor, Teagan raised a hand to knock at the royal couple's door, noticing that the crimson ribbon had been removed. A second later, he paused mid-gesture. The bann was worldly in the ways of the bedchamber, and could easily identify the sounds that were creeping beneath the door.

"Alistair?" he called quietly, leaning towards the wood.

"_Y-yes?"_

"The guards are going to watch for Zevran," the bann explained, trying not to laugh. "I'm going to bed. Goodnight, both."

"Goodnight, uncle," replied the king, in slightly strangled tones. There was a pause, and then he added: "- and Flo says goodnight, too. Well, she's _waving _goodnight. Ah, um."

Teagan snorted softly, and with a touch of wistfulness. He just about restrained himself from making a glib comment, aware that it might sound a little forced in the light of his own hopeless desire.

A short while after that, Alistair lay slumped back in the armchair with a dreamy smile plastered across his face. His entire body felt as though it had been drained of potency, the muscle liquefied and replaced with a soft, honeyed warmth. His reddened face shone with sweat, his hands lay limp and useless on his thighs; he had not yet gathered the coherency to speak beyond a sated croak.

Flora sat on the rug and surveyed her handiwork, inordinately pleased with herself. She had no doubt that soon Alistair's anxiety would return; but for now, it had melted away into the recesses of his mind, replaced with a lazy afterglow.

After a moment, he reached down a limp arm, groping around until his fingers found purchase in the unravelling mustard wool of her sleeve.

"Come up here and have a cuddle," the king ordered faintly, patting his thigh. "My sweet wife."

As Flora curled contentedly on his lap and fiddled with a strand of hair, Alistair drifted in and out of a doze; his arms wrapped tight around her. The queen yawned, looking at the contrast between the rich oxblood of her hair and the pale tip of her finger.

A moment later she went suddenly rigid and Alistair awoke with a start, clutching her with sleep-heavy eyes.

"Are the twins coming?" he mumbled, as he did each time that she made an unexpected movement.

"No," Flora replied, her head swivelling around the chamber. "I heard a baby."

Sure enough, the thin grizzle of a new-born came echoing once again from some distant corner of the tavern. Flora's brow furrowed and she swivelled in Alistair's lap, clutching the arm of the chair as she swept her gaze around in an effort to ascertain the direction of the cry.

Quite suddenly, the queen felt an ache within her own swollen breast in response to the hungry wail. Bewildered, she reached up to touch her chest, feeling a district throb beneath her fingertips.

"Whaa- "

"What's wrong, my love?"

"I'm aching," she replied, confused. "I don't know why."

From the other side of the wood, they heard a man's voice rise and fall soothingly, while the newborn continued to grizzle.

Flora felt the tears surging as the nerves in her own unbalanced body quivered in response to the cry. Alistair looked down as his wife sniffled, reaching out to dab gently at her eyes with the corner of his sleeve.

"It's not _our_ baby, my love. Besides, it sounds like the father is there."

Flora was well aware that it was not _their _baby, but she did not quite know how to explain how she felt to Alistair. Instead, she pressed her face to his bare shoulder; then squeaked as his sweat-slick skin made an audibly wet sound against her cheek.

"Ooh," she breathed, as her husband fingered the damp collar of his shirt with a snort. "You're sweaty."

"Because my wife is such hot stuff, naturally," Alistair retorted, nuzzling his damp face against her neck as she squealed delightedly. "I suppose I'd better get a bath before bed."

"Nooo! Nooo! I like your _manly scent!"_

"Not after I've slept in it for eight hours, you wouldn't."

While Alistair partially dismantled the barricade – enough to let him open the door and call for a bath to be brought – Flora tucked her feet beneath her and yawned. Before long, soothed by the cedar scent of the hearth and the warmth of the chamber, she was dozing off in the faded armchair. The firm padding felt far better against her sore spine than the rag-stuffed mattress on the bed.

A blanket was draped over her, a kiss pressed to her forehead; Flora was vaguely aware of the entrance of the bathtub and Alistair's hushed thanks. Not even the scraping of the dresser – which had been temporarily manhandled away from the door – roused her.

Alistair shrugged off his unbuttoned shirt, draping it over the back of the chair while eyeing the range of bath products provided on a tarnished pewter tray. Northerners favoured rough and ready soaps made from fish oil; which tended to leave one as greasy as the creatures from which they had originated. To his relief, the provided soap appeared innocuous enough – the powdery, flowery scent rising from the bath bubbles suggested that the product was Orlesian in origin.

Just as he was bending over to remove his boots, there came a sharp rap from the window. Flora lifted a sleepy head from the armchair as the king barrelled across the room towards his sword. It was leaning in its sheath against the bed; Alistair whipped it out with a singing ring of metal.

"It might not be an evil dwarf," observed Flora from the armchair, pleating the blanket between her fingers as a glowering Alistair advanced towards the window. "It might be a…. friendly owl."

"Stay behind me, sweetheart!"

Alistair did not take his gaze from the shutters, the blade held rigid and aloft and his eyes as focused as a hawk's. Holding his breath, he reached up for the belt keeping the shutters closed and pulled it off in a swift motion. The wooden shutters swung open and Zevran waved at him from the other side of the glass, perched on a sliver of windowsill perhaps six inches wide. The sight of the elf was mildly terrifying – his face was entirely crimson, so thoroughly coated with blood that not even the dark tattooed stripes were visible.

Alistair recoiled, his eyes widening and the sword dropping from his fingers.

_It's not mine, _the grinning elf mouthed through the glass, gesturing elegantly towards his blood-soaked face. _Do not fear. _

The king reached forward to unlatch the window, yanking the frames back and grimacing as a blast of cold air hit him squarely in the chest.

"Climbing in through a window and greeted by a half-naked husband," the elf purred, his fingers leaving red smears on the frame as he clambered inside. "This reminds me of my days in Antiva."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Being eight and a bit months pregnant is not going to stop Flo from getting down with her husband, lol! There aren't seven verses of the explicit version of Warden Flora for nothing, hehehe. WTF, though – 'crab cakes' during an intimate moment? Sometimes I don't even know what's going on in Flo's head, and I'm writing from her perspective…
> 
> lol though now that I’ve actually been pregnant... if my husband had tried to touch me at 8.5 months pregnant I would have hissed at him like a cat XD


	137. The Carta’s Intentions

"What – you're _covered _in blood!" Alistair croaked, closing and shuttering the bedchamber window. Zevran slithered down onto the floorboards, his boots making a distinct _squelch_ when they made contact with the wood.

"Arterial spray, _mi amor," _he replied smoothly, sauntering across the room and leaving bloodied footprints in his wake. "None of it is mine. Hello, _querida."_

Flora peered at him over the arm of the chair with eyes like silver plates, wide and round.

"Hello," she breathed, looking him up and down. "I'll… find you something to change into."

Zevran blew her a kiss, simultaneously grimacing down at his tunic as the coagulated blood stiffened the finely grained leather.

"And you can have this water," Alistair added, gesturing to the steaming bath. "No offence, but you need it more than me."

"Thank you, _amors," _purred the elf, plucking at the laces of his clothing. "And in return, I shall tell you all that I have learnt from our dwarven 'friend'."

Alistair glanced quickly towards where Flora was rummaging through the pack, grumbling to herself as she sorted through piles of maternity gowns that Leliana had optimistically smuggled into the baggage.

"Eurgh! Frills! Eurgh! _Ruffles!"_

Seeing that his wife was occupied, the king lowered his voice. He leaned towards where Zevran was peeling himself out of skin-tight leather breeches while also keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the elf's face.

"The dwarf is _dead, _isn't he?"

Not dignifying this with a response, Zevran instead shot Alistair a pitying look; draping the trousers elegantly across the back of the armchair.

"My dear Alistair," he murmured instead, combing fingers through strands of blood-clotted hair. "You keep your eyes fixed so _steadfastly _on my face. Even if you _do _feel a little inferior in your manhood – there is no need to feel shy. It is, after all, you who won the heart of the lovely Florence!"

"I don't feel _inferior in my manhood_," hissed back Alistair, a flush creeping slowly upwards from his collarbone. "Maker's Breath. The bath is molten-hot, by the way."

"_Excelente,"_ retorted Zevran, clambering flamboyantly into the bath as Alistair recoiled. "Aaah: _steaming_, just as I like it."

Flora returned from the baggage with a tunic and breeches over her arm. She was about to lower herself to the floorboards beside the bath, when Alistair hastily dragged over the low stool from the hearth. The queen sat down on one side of the tub, the king knelt on the other; both looked expectantly at the elf reclining in the steaming bath between them. The water was now turning a shade of pale pink as the coagulated gore sluiced away from Zevran's flesh – though his face and hair were still coated in dried blood.

"What did the dwarf say?" Alistair asked abruptly, dispensing with any other pleasantries. "Please, tell me you got some information out of him."

Zevran raised a dripping foot out of the water and admired the lean muscle of his leg; sinewy and nut-brown in the hearth light.

"Our diminutive friend put up quite the resistance," he murmured, watching beads of moisture roll down the contour of his calf. "It took longer than I thought for him to crack. But – never fear, _amors – _he ended up spilling his guts. In _all _senses of the word."

Alistair glanced quickly at Flora, checking that she was not unduly affected by the graphic description. Flora had gone a shade paler, but her face was resolute – this dwarf had endangered her children, and even her extensive compassion had its limits.

"_Sí, _he ended up being _very informative," _the elf continued, lowering his foot back into the bloodied water. "Once I had… _gone to work_ on him a little."

"What's their plan?" demanded Alistair, clutching the bathtub's copper rim.

"Well," began Zevran, his voice taking on a more serious resonance. "It seems as though Nathaniel Howe's scheme has backfired on him rather dramatically. He has been captured by the Carta, and taken hostage_."_

"They've taken him hostage?" repeated Alistair, astounded.

"_Sí," _murmured the elf, one elegant eyebrow rising. "The dwarf lost several fingers before he managed to convince me that he _was, _in fact, telling the truth. When I asked _where _their headquarters were, he claimed that they _moved around."_

"Using the old dwarven tunnels, I imagine," muttered Alistair. "Carry on."

"Anyway, so they have captured Howe- "

"But nobody is left to pay his ransom," the king interrupted, feverishly. "Only the sister in Amaranthine – Desdemona? Dolores?"

"Dolphin!" suggested Flora, helpfully.

"_Delilah," _corrected the elf, with an indulgent smile at the queen. "Finian has been keeping an eye on her – and an even _closer _one on her correspondence – and there is no suggestion that she has been in contact with her brother. It seems she truly _has _disowned the family name."

"So, if the Carta have taken Howe, why are they still after Flo?" Alistair asked, plaintively. "They almost _netted _her today. She could have been hurt – or worse!"

Zevran sighed, turning dark and apologetic eyes on Flora. He reached out to lift a strand of thick, crimson hair from where it was dangling atop the bloodied water.

"From what I extracted from the fiend: the Carta want to capture _you, carina, _as revenge for the destruction of their headquarters in Orzammar, and the death of their commander, Jarvia. The promotion of Lord Harrowmont to king also resulted in a _purge _of the criminal underworld within the dwarven city, so they have been 'forced' elsewhere."

"But the Carta _abducted _me!" Flora said, indignantly. "I didn't even want to go into their headquarters in the first place."

"And Sten killed Jarvia," added Alistair, equally outraged.

The king was making a concerted effort to keep his temper in control, though nervous tension thrummed along every nerve and vein. His nostrils were flared, his fingers tapped agitatedly on the copper flank of the bath. His gaze swung between the reclining elf and his wife, who was perched on the stool with her elbows resting on the rim.

"I am simply telling you what he told me_,"_ replied the elf, fragments of dried blood flaking from his cheek and drifting down to float on the soapy surface of the water. "I was sure to let him know how _unacceptable _this state of affairs was."

Alistair took a deep breath, his brow creasing as the thoughts raced behind his handsome face.

"So, they want to take my wife," he said, slow and measured. "_My _queen."

Both Flora and Zevran watched as the king rose to his feet, his face carefully blank. Without speaking a word, Alistair stalked across the chamber towards the window, coming to a halt just before the shuttered space. The next moment, his fist swung against the frame, hard enough to splinter the wood and force the shutter off its hinge.

Flora flinched in shock at the noise. Zevran, who hadn't twitched, reached out reflexively to place a dripping hand on her arm. Elf and queen looked at each other speechless for a moment, and then Flora pushed herself to her feet with a grunt of effort. She padded across the room; the only noise in the chamber coming from Alistair's erratic exhalations. Her husband, two bright bursts of crimson on his cheeks, turned to face his wife with an apology already on his lips.

"My love- "

Flora reached out and grasped her husband's arm, he let her manoeuvre his fingers up before her face so she could inspect the damage. There were bruises and scrapes marring his knuckles, one side of his hand was swollen. Several small, slender wooden splinters protruded from the skin. Alistair grimaced, frustrated by his loss of control; he gazed down at his wife as she began to methodically work the shards from his fingers. One she managed to pry out with her bitten nails, the other she tugged gently free with her teeth.

"Sweetheart- "

"I can't heal these anymore," Flora mumbled, her lips brushing over the scraped knuckles. "Please, take care of yourself."

Wincing, Alistair bowed his head over hers as she loosed his hand.

"I'm such an _idiot,"_ he said, shame-faced as he flexed his sore fingers. "This is my sword-hand. I could have broken it."

"I think you really taught the window-frame a lesson, though," Flora replied earnestly, peering up at him through her eyelashes. "I'll sleep better at night knowing that it's been subdued."

Alistair gazed at her for a long moment, then the corner of his mouth turned up in a reluctant smile. Reaching out, he touched the side of his wife's solemn, fine-boned face and then ducked down to close the foot of air between them, pressing his mouth softly to hers.

"My sweet wife," he said, in the same soft, familiar tone that he had once used to call her his _sister-warden. _"You're as delectable as an Orlesian pastry."

"_Orlesian!" _Flora's face contorted in horror. "No!"

Alistair laughed out loud, the ache in his hand gradually fading.

"My dear, your expression just then – I could have sworn Loghain Mac Tir was standing before me! _'Orlesian'! No!"_

By now, Flora's face was contorted in outrage.

"Loghain Mac Tir?!"

"_Loggin Mack Teer!" _repeated Zevran, mimicking the queen's distinctive northern accent. "Ah, _carina."_

Alistair released his wife's hand reluctantly as she padded back across the room.

"I'm going to find you something to eat, Zevran," Flora announced, occupying herself once more with the baggage. "You must be hungry. I think I have pickled herring in a jar, somewhere."

"Delightful!" purred Zevran, leaning back against the copper tub and resting his arms on the rims. "I am foaming at the mouth with anticipation, _querida."_

She shot him a dubious look over the shoulder of the lurid, mustard wool dressing robe; squatting down awkwardly to rifle through the leather packs.

"Foaming? Is that a good thing?"

The elf shot her a wide and enigmatic smile in response, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes creasing. Alistair wandered back over to the bathtub, sitting down on the low stool with his own face lost in thought. Flora was utterly occupied with the task of rifling through the bags – it seemed that nothing had been packed in any _logical _order, and Leliana's frilly maternity-wear monstrosities were somehow _multiplying_.

Zevran watched the queen grow pink in the face – she had obstinately refused help from her husband – and the corner of his mouth curled upwards, slow and wistful.

"I had a realisation this evening, _mi rey," _he murmured, quiet enough that his words were obscured by the grumbling fire, the northern wind, and Flora's dark mutterings as she rooted through ruffled maternity gowns.

"Eh?"

"That, even if- "

Zevran began to speak and then flinched, as though the words had scraped the inside of his throat through their utterance alone. He grimaced, then took a steadying breath and continued; a crease forming across his smooth, richly tanned brow.

"_Ahem. Anyway, _my realisation was this: that, even if _mi florita_ had not fallen in love with you, I never would have made a suitable partner for her."

Alistair blinked; he had not been expecting this manner of tangent.

"What do you mean, Zev?"

The elf gave a rueful shrug, water streaming in rivulets down the sinew of his throat.

"I _enjoyed _what I did to the dwarf earlier," he said, very quietly. "I took an artisan's delight in the craft of torturing another living being. I had thought I had left such… such sentiment in the past – when I abandoned the feathered mantle – but, it seems that it was merely lying dormant."

Alistair watched the elf's dark eyes gleam in the flame-edged shadow; the pupils almost the same shade as their surrounding irises.

"It seems that there is something incurably _rotten_ within me," the elf continued, measuredly. "I do not know whether the Crows planted this corruption during my childhood, or whether the seed of it was always there, and they simply nurtured it. Still – it is a growth far too extensive and malignant to remove. I am a man who enjoys killing, and I will always be so. Unfortunately, this places me at odds with our kind-hearted _carina._"

He made a gesture towards Flora, who was cross-legged before the hearth and in the throes of an _intensive moral crisis. _A particularly hideous maternity gown was clutched in her hands – pink and yellow silk, ambitiously augmented with polka-dots and ruffles – and she was clearly debating whether or not to surreptitiously shove it into the flames. Her dilemma was writ naked across her lovely, grave features; for a moment, the gown's life hung in the balance.

As Alistair and Zevran watched, the grumpy queen finally shoved the crumpled gown back inside the leather pack. A moment later, she removed the garment, smoothed it out over her belly, then began to press it into neat folds.

"She is too… _good _for me," the elf said, in an undertone, a note of raw yearning ringing in the words. "She is as sweet as _mazapán_, and I – I am a _killer of man. _And despite her friendship, which has saved my very life and steered me to new horizons – I cannot change what I am at heart. A man like me could not make someone like her feel safe, I am sure of it. I am not you, _mi amor_."

Alistair suddenly felt a surge of sympathy towards the elf, who – like himself - had been irrevocably moulded by forces beyond his control. He almost reached out a hand to grip the elf's shoulder, then remembered that Zevran was still naked in the bathtub.

"But Flo adores you," he said instead, firm and quiet. "And she knows what you are – and what you've done."

Zevran shrugged an elegant shoulder, eyeing his still-bloodied reflection on the gleaming copper wall of the bathtub.

"It is a moot point, regardless," the elf murmured as his gaze dropped to the wedding band on Alistair's finger. "I have never seen a pair better suited to each other than you two. You go together like… ginger and cinnamon."

Alistair beamed, glancing across to where Flora had finally managed to locate the jar of pickled herrings. Zevran followed his stare, a wicked smile curling across his olive features.

"_Ah, _but the lovemaking would have been exquisite_,"_ he added dreamily, giggling as Alistair nearly fell off the stool. "She and I have always had great _química."_

"_Sshh!" _squawked Alistair under his breath, wide-eyed. "The babies have _ears. _They can _hear _what we're saying! There's only about _this _much between them and us."

The king held his finger and thumb apart a quarter of an inch, hazel eyes bruising with sudden tenderness.

"You can see little feet pressing against Flo's belly," he breathed, swallowing a hard lump of emotion. "You can see _tiny_ _toes. _It- it's _amazing."_

Zevran smiled wistfully at him; then both men looked up as Flora shuffled across the chamber towards them, ambitiously clutching the jar of pickled herring, a long-handled copper kettle, and a cluster of linen handkerchiefs.

"I'm waddling like a duck," the queen grumbled as Alistair sprang up to assist her. "I can't even _walk properly _anymore."

"_Cuac, cuac," _piped up Zevran, rapidly transforming the sad smile into a beam. "Ah, is that my midnight snack, _querida?"_

_Good luck, _mouthed Alistair, pulling a surreptitious face over his wife's head as she sat back down on the low stool. _They are disgusting. _

Flora caught the tail end of his expression and stuck her tongue out at him, setting the jar at her feet and reaching for the kettle. Carefully, she tipped out some of the steaming water onto a square of linen and wrung out the excess.

"It's a shame it wasn't raining," she breathed, dabbing at the elf's bloodied face with a northerner's firm hand. "Some of this might have been washed away."

With each pass of the damp linen, the tattooed stripes came gradually into view. Zevran tilted his head, his dark eyes following the movement of her hand.

"One more day on the open road," Alistair said, sitting down on the bed and unfolding the map across his thighs. "Well, one and a half. And then we'll be safely in Highever. Where there's Mabari, and guards, and loyal retainers. Sweetheart, how big do you reckon your pups are now? Crab and Lobster?"

"_Cod _and Lobster," corrected Flora, using bitten nails to scrape away a smear of dried blood from Zevran's cheekbone. "I think they're the size of… of a horse?"

"A _horse?"_

"Mm," replied the queen, vaguely. "Tilt your head back, Zevran."

The fire crackled in the hearth, the loose shutter quivered but held fast against the northern wind. For the first time in his life, the elf closed his eyes, leaned his head against the rim of the bath and presented the slender vulnerability of his cocoa-brown throat to another person. He could hear Flora humming to herself in her hoarse, slightly flat voice; her fingers brushing across the contours of his throat.

"I don't think Mabari come in horse-size, my love," replied Alistair, squinting down at the map. "Is this a river?"

"Mm, it's called the _Vyrnwy," _replied Flora, feeling Zevran's pulse surge beneath her fingertips. Assuming that the cause of this increased heartbeat was the exposure of his neck, she touched his cheek with a reassuring thumb; tracing the elongated, fading marks tattooed there a decade prior. To her mild confusion, this did not calm the elf down- instead, his pulse throbbed with even greater vigour.

"Is there a crossing over the river, baby?" Alistair asked, brow furrowed. "I can't tell if this mark is a bridge, or a smudge. Or a drop of ale."

"There's a bridge," Flora replied, wringing out the linen a final time before edging the cloth around Zevran's forehead, where clumps of brownish red still clung to the roots of the hair. "Sometimes it gets washed away, if there's been a storm. I was never allowed out of Herring, but my dad crossed it a few times."

Alistair grimaced, envisioning broken bridges and further delays.

"All done," Flora announced, smoothing her hand maternally over the top of Zevran's damp hair. "Fresh as a tadpole."

Zevran looked up at her, and for a moment there was such rawness in his ink-black gaze that she flinched. Impulsively Flora leaned forward, her stomach pressing against the side of the bathtub, and kissed the elf on his damp, tattooed cheek. He closed his eyes for a moment, elegant throat flexing as he swallowed.

"Ah, _mi sirenita," _he said, very soft. "You lied to me."

"Eeeh?"

"You said earlier that your lips couldn't _heal _any more."

Flora stared at him, unsure what to say. Zevran then rose to his feet with ostentatious languidity; water streaming down the finely hewn contours of his muscled form.

"As payment: here is one last thrill before motherhood begins," he announced, with exaggerated flair. "Behold - a feast for the eyes!"

"Must you always _flaunt _yourself?!" protested Alistair, as Flora cackled and put her hands over her face. "Maker's Breath."

The elf winked, stepping out of the bath and reaching for the shirt and breeches that the queen had laid out for him. Since they belonged to Alistair, the garments were simultaneously too broad and too long. Still, Zevran made do; knotting the shirt at the waist to show off a biscuit-coloured midriff, and stealing Alistair's belt from the shutters to keep up the trousers.

"May I dismantle the barricade to seek out my own chamber, _mi rey_?" he asked, eyeing the dresser dragged before the door. "Unless, of course, you require a _personal bodyguard _for _mi sirenita_."

"I can watch my wife tonight," Alistair replied, eyeing Flora as she hung their damp clothing above the hearth. "Thank you for dealing with the dwarf. Your room is just over the passage, next door to the newlyweds."

"_Newlyweds?!" _The elf's eyes lit up. "I wonder if they need any assistance with the consummation. You know what these inexperienced young husbands are like – they sometimes require a bit of _encouragement."_

Zevran giggled at Alistair, who immediately scowled – not appreciating the reminder that he had fallen asleep _twice _on his own wedding night.

"_Night, _Zev!"

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Zevran's story actually really makes me sad! What a tragic backstory! Actually, all the main companions have sad backstories – Zevran, Leliana, Alistair… even Wynne, when you look at what happened with her son.
> 
> Anyway, this was a sweet chapter to write!
> 
> THOSE DAMNED DWARVES! Omg, the Orzammar chapters feel like they were such a long time ago, haha!


	138. The Motherless Babe

Once the elf had navigated his way through the barricade and the door had been firmly fastened in his wake, Alistair made one final patrol of the room; checking the key in the lock and fixing the shutters across the window. He even opened the wardrobe to check amidst the empty shelves, and ducked down to eye the cobwebbed alcove beneath the bed.

Already nestled amidst the blankets with cushions wedged beneath her sore spine, Flora watched her husband reassure himself once more that they were alone. She made no comment at first, but when Alistair rattled the key for a third time to check that it was turned fast; an entreating squeak emerged from her throat.

"Husband!"

Alistair turned to face her and Flora reached out a hand, her grey eyes wide and imploring, slender fingers extended into the shadow like bait.

"Sweet wife," he murmured, abandoning the key and striding across the room; clambering out of the breeches one leg at a time as he did so. Flora beamed at him, shifting herself across on the rag-stuffed mattress so that the king had room to clamber in beside her.

As Alistair reached out to draw the moth-eaten velvet curtains closed around the bed, he dropped a hand to retrieve his unsheathed sword. Lifting it by the hilt, the muscles in his arm flexing, he set the blade carefully down on his side of the bed. Flora, who had nestled herself into her usual spot on his chest, eyed the naked sword with vague misgiving.

"What if you roll over and it _impales_ you?"

"Then I'll regret my decision very much in the morning," he replied, curling an arm around her shoulders. "Rest on me more, my love. I don't want an _inch_ of air between us tonight."

Flora obediently followed his gesture, heaving herself up bodily against the broad muscle of his chest. Alistair rested his chin on top of her head, exhaling long and low as he felt a twitch of movement beneath his fingers; a small rump pressed up against the confines of it's mother's belly.

"Now they _both_ have hiccups," she mumbled, putting a hand beneath her navel. "Ooh, it feels so peculiar."

Alistair reached down to cover her palm with hers, swallowing a sudden lump of emotion that rose in his throat.

"They've clearly been at the ale," he replied, throatily. "Little inebriates."

"No, they have bones," Flora replied, solemnly. "They aren't jellyfish."

Alistair bit back a grin, and did not elaborate on the difference between _inebriates_ and _invertebrates_. Instead, he kissed the side of his wife's head and stroked away some of the fine baby-hairs that curled around her ears.

"They've both turned over," Flora whispered into the shadow, her fingers moving around the now-familiar contours of her belly. "Wynne said that they would. They're getting ready to be born."

_Please stop growing for a little bit, _she thought to herself, grimly. _You already seem too big to… to fit. _

Alistair, who knew the importance of positioning in the womb from assisting with foaling, let out an unsteady exhalation of relief. Not quite trusting himself to speak, he contented himself with drawing the warm, sturdy body of his wife even closer to his chest; nuzzling his face into her shoulder.

"Have you thought any more about names?" he asked against her hair, the words emerging muffled. "Zevran keeps suggesting _Zevran, _Teagan likes _Alistair, _as in _Alistair II _– which is not happening in this Age or the next – and Gilmore likes _Balreglian, _who was apparently some heroic bann from the Steel Age."

"Bal- Bal _– Balrog?!" _mumbled Flora sleepily, pulling the blankets up to her chin. "We can't have a name that I can't _say _properly."

"Wynne says that we should just call them Baby Boy Theirin and Baby Girl Theirin until we decide on names that are suitable for _recording in historical archives," _Alistair replied, gazing up at the faded crimson velvet of the bed canopy.

"Well, _I_ call them Kick and Fidget," she replied, idly kneading his muscled forearm with her thumbs. "I don't know if those are Chantry-approved names."

The young king laughed softly, his eyes bruising with tenderness.

"I don't think many priestesses would dare to oppose the Hero of Ferelden when it comes to the naming of her babies, my love."

As Flora's breathing settled into the rhythm of sleep, Alistair glanced once more towards the sword at his side; reassured by the glint of the dull metal.

The wind continued to circle the tavern for the next few hours, prying at shutters and testing the strength of doors. It managed to work free a few slate tiles from the tavern roof – flinging them triumphantly to the gravel – but overall, _The Flagon and Blessing _stood squat and steadfast against the temperamental air. It was a northern dwelling, built for endurance rather than aesthetic, and the majority of guests within slept peaceful and undisturbed.

Unfortunately, the king of Ferelden was not experiencing a restful slumber. Every sly rattle at the window caused the adrenaline to surge in his veins, his fingers curling around the hilt of his sword. He could hear the snores of his companions from the surrounding chambers, the quiet conversation of the guards outside, the soft shuffle of the Mabari's paws as they patrolled the corridor; yet none of these reassuring sounds proved much comfort.

Fortunately for Alistair, Flora had also woken up in the early hours of the morning, roused by the general discomfort of carrying two large infants as a slender-built girl. He had nuzzled his face against her bare shoulder in silent greeting, and then tentatively begun to kiss her neck; lips meandering with soft purpose over the delicate skin of her throat. To his delight, she had pressed herself against him with drowsy enthusiasm, her fingers tugging at the strings of her nightshirt.

A short while later, the queen of Ferelden clutched helplessly at the cushions, her fingers scrambling without success for purchase in the bed-linen. A flush of excitement had spread across her breasts, up her neck, and stained her cheeks a deep pink; beads of sweat forming on her forehead as soft pants escaped her throat. The blankets below moved with increasing vigour, the patterned wool distorted by the shoulders of a grown man beneath them. The king had been immersed between his wife's thighs for the past half-candle, distracting himself from thoughts of danger with the pleasures of intimacy.

"Please," she croaked, feeling hot breath against her thigh. "Please- "

Just as Alistair returned to this most enjoyable of husbandly duties, Flora inhaled sharply; sitting up straight against the cushions.

"Stop, stop!"

To her alarm, her husband emerged from the blankets with unsheathed blade already in hand.

"What's wrong?!"

"Aah! You took the _sword _down there?!"

"I have to be ready at all times, my love!" Alistair retorted throatily, hair rumpled and cheeks flushed. "What is it?"

The wide-eyed Flora clutched the blankets to her breast, her hair falling in a loose tangle over her shoulders.

"That baby is crying again," she breathed, a crease of distress furrowing itself into her brow. "Can you hear it?"

Alistair leaned up on a muscled forearm, canting his head in the direction of Flora's gesture. Sure enough, a plaintive grizzle was just about audible through the party wall; the sound muffled by the crackling of the hearth.

"Sweetheart, babies _cry," _he replied, eyes dropping instinctively to his wife's swollen stomach. "It's what they do. Cry, and eat, and - "

Flora let out an incoherent grumble, pushing back the blankets and tugging aside the faded bed-hangings. The mustard woollen dressing-robe lay crumpled on the floorboards; she manoeuvred herself into it while Alistair scrambled to follow her.

"You can stay here if you like," she whispered, fastening the final wooden button over her breasts. "I'm just going to quickly see what's wrong."

The king bit back a snort at the notion that he would let his wife wander the corridors of an unfamiliar dwelling at night.

"Here, sweetheart," he said hastily, rising from the tangled blankets and crossing the room towards the makeshift barricade before the door. "I'll get this out of the way. But wait a moment before you go charging down the corridor – I'm not in a fit state to be seen in public yet."

Flora turned in confusion towards her husband; her gaze dropping to his flagrant arousal.

"Oh! Oh."

Once Alistair had calmed himself enough to don boots and breeches, he shoved the dresser away from the door. Flora ventured out into the tavern passageway, as one of the yawning guards followed at a tactful distance. The Mabari also trotted in the queen's wake, their ears pricked with curiosity.

Alistair's longer stride – worth two of Flora's shorter steps – soon brought him within reach of her. He slid his arm around her waist as she slowed, ducking to press his face into her neck and whisper in her ear.

"I was in sight of the finishing line just then, and you deprived me of my prize," he murmured throatily; the intimacy of his words making it clear what he was talking about. "But I'll be enjoying the _sweet nectar of victory_ later, I assure you."

As if his meaning was not obvious, the king slid a surreptitious hand between the buttons of his wife's dressing robe; his palm cupping her full breast while a callused thumb circled a nipple with slow provocation. Flora inhaled unsteadily, leaning back against his chest.

"Do you want me to stop, sweetheart?"

"N- no_\- "_

"Is everything alright?"

The bann's chamber door opened from somewhere behind them; followed by sounds of movement within Wynne's room.

Alistair hastily withdrew his groping fingers while Flora composed herself, returning her thoughts to the task at hand. The thin grizzle had fallen quiet for a few minutes, but now resumed once again; weak and plaintive. A man's exhausted murmur could be heard alongside it, the words unintelligible but the plea within them clear. Both sounds were echoing from behind a nearby door, the chamber adjacent to the one ascribed to the royal couple.

Flora padded forwards, heedless of her bare feet, and came to a halt before the door. With a deep breath - resolving just to query whether everything was well - she reached up and rapped her knuckles gently on the wood.

The baby's grizzling continued, but the soft urging of the man paused, replaced with the sound of footsteps. The door opened to reveal a man in his forties; the richly tanned skin and dark hair suggesting that – like their companion, Morrigan - he was at least part-Chasind. Yet the richness had been drained from his colouring, he appeared grey and faded, tiredness creasing his eyes and grief engraving new furrows into his brow. In his arms, he clutched a bundle of linen that emitted a thin, reedy wail, one scrawny arm flailing upwards desperately.

"I'm sorry for the noise, your majesties," he beseeched, clearly having been informed about the royal guests by the tavern-keeper. "Please don't have us turned out."

His eyes slid from Flora to the imposing figure of Alistair at her back; then to where the unimpressed Royal Guard stood a few paces behind.

"Of course not," Alistair assured him, the smooth, confident mantle of a king firmly settled over his broad shoulders. "My wife heard your child crying, and wanted to know if all was well."

A flicker of grief passed across the man's face as he dropped his gaze to the squirming bundle in his arms. The scrawny infant was only a few weeks old, it's face crumpled in distress as a thin, continuous whimper emerged from its throat. There was no mother to be seen anywhere in the man's untidy chamber, nor was there any evidence of female occupation. Suddenly, the cries of a malnourished baby and the weary sadness of it's father made a terrible sense. Alistair inhaled unsteadily, resisting the urge to put his arm around his own childbearing queen; confronted with a man living the nightmare that the king himself had refused to even _contemplate._

"My wife – my Marla – got childbed fever," the man offered in explanation, his voice still hoarse with disbelief. "It's the second wife I've lost to it. Now our son is like to die from malnourishing."

The baby's grizzle of hunger resumed, and Flora felt the odd ache throbbing in her breast once more. It finally made a strange sort of sense; focusing on the whimpering infant, she barely paid heed to the man's explanation.

The father crossed the room, which was far smaller than the one assigned to the royal couple – a narrow bed alongside one wall, a faded armchair before a smoking hearth. Awkwardly, he manoeuvred the babe into the crook of his elbow while dipping his finger into a nearby bowl of cow's milk. The baby grimaced as the finger was offered, turning its face away so that milk smeared across its flushed cheek.

"He won't take it from my finger," the man said helplessly, as one of the guards went to build up the fire. "Not enough to survive. He… he don't understand why his mother isn't here."

"Where are you travelling to?" asked the king softly, sympathy writ raw across his handsome features.

The father gave a helpless shrug, struggling to keep a grip on his agitated infant. It had refused the milk-covered finger and was flailing it's arms; the cries desperate and angry.

"In honesty, I don't know, King Alistair," he replied over the sound of the distressed baby. "I don't know who would hire a Chasind with a babe. My tribe wouldn't take me back, I married out of it when I took my Marla as a bride. I thought perhaps I might travel to Orlais, or the Marches, look for work. Pay for a wet-nurse for my son so that he… he might survive."

"What's your trade?" asked Teagan, who had joined the group in the increasingly crowded chamber.

"A carpenter, my lord," replied the man, then swore under his breath as the squalling infant turned it's head away once again from the offered finger. "Ah, Maker- "

In frustration, he let the baby droop from his arm and turned back to the bowl of milk. As he did so, his harried gaze fell on Flora, who had stepped into his path. Wordlessly, she held out her arms; her pale gaze firm and compelling. The man stared down at her for a moment, his weary face contorted in stark disbelief.

"Your – your majesty?!"

Taking matters into her own hands, Flora reached out to gently extract the wailing bundle. The queen then shuffled over to the armchair before the fire; lowering herself to the faded cushions as the baby nuzzled its face hungrily against her wool-covered chest. Reaching up to unbutton the mustard dressing robe, Flora bared one of her breasts and cradled the infant in the crook of her arm. Guided by innate urge, the snuffling baby's hungry mouth fixed itself immediately around her nipple, it's cheeks moving frantically as it suckled. The former spirit healer - used to listening to her own inner compulsions - had been driven to act purely by instinct; now, slightly dazed, she clutched the babe and let herself grow accustomed to the new sensation.

"Hm," she breathed, touching the baby's downy head as it gazed up at her with wide, bleary eyes. "Much better, eh?"

The baby put a greedy little hand on her breast, the tiny fingers spread like a starfish against the skin.

Alistair, who had moved across the chamber as though in a dream, stared down at his wife in speechless wonder; watching her whisper indistinctly to the hungry infant as it nursed. If he had not been king, or they had not been before others, the bright gleam in his eyes would soon have converted to tears on his cheeks.

"Maker's Breath, Lola," he murmured, using the endearment he customarily used when they were alone. "How – how do you know what to do?"

"Dunno," replied Flora vaguely, fascinated by the baby's fixed stare and the pull of it's cheeks.. "I… I just do_." _

"It's instinctual," offered Wynne softly from the doorway. The senior enchanter's white hair fell in an unwound skein over her shoulders; she had clearly been roused by the noise and come to see what was going on. "Nobody needs to teach you, child."

Alistair crouched down on the moth-eaten rug beside the armchair, staring mesmerised up at his wife. Utterly careless of the presence of others, she was sprawled back against the faded velvet, her own swollen stomach resting atop her crossed legs. The mustard dressing gown was hanging loose, one fawn-coloured thigh and a breast bared; the baby waved small fingers as it lay nestled in the crook of her elbow, hungrily drawing in as much as it could gulp down. Flora's head rested against the side of the armchair, full lips slightly parted and rain-grey irises dreamily unfocused. Ribbons of dark crimson fell loose over her shoulders, in rich contrast to the pale creaminess of her skin. Despite the tired circles beneath her eyes, the grubbiness of her small feet and the lurid hideousness of the mustard dressing robe; there was something strangely compelling about the queen nursing the suckling infant.

"Flora," the king said thickly, the name coming out like a prayer. "I've never seen you look more beautiful than you do at this moment. Maker's Breath."

Flora smiled back at him shyly, something tender and unspoken passing between them.

_Soon, it'll be our children feeding at the breast. The babies that we accidentally made at Ostagar; the greatest and best mistake of our lives. _

Meanwhile the father stared, speechless, at his suckling son; tentative strands of hope beginning to mix with the disbelief.

"My lady," he breathed, his harassed brain only just starting to make the connections between the deep crimson hair and the distinctive, arcing white scarring across Flora's exposed shoulder. "Aren't you – the lass that ended the Blight?"

Flora nodded her head, leaning back drowsily against the leaking stuffing of the cushion.

"Mm," she mumbled, feeling the baby's eyes fixed unblinking on her face. "Not just me, though."

_Silver Knight; Golden Lady. I wish you were still with me. I miss you every day. _

The man had only just grasped the reality of the situation – that the _Hero of Ferelden, slayer of Archdemons, _was feeding his child.

"The queen is the _Blight-ender?" _he croaked, paling further as Teagan gave a nod of confirmation. "Ah! Your majesty! I… I'm so… how can I repay- "

Stumbling towards the armchair, the father made to kneel. Flora reached out a hand to halt him, the seawater-pale eyes fixing themselves on his quivering face. The baby had fallen asleep at her breast with fingers curled into little fists, full and contented.

"Don't," she said, softly so not to wake the sated infant. "I'm happy to help. If you need work, my brother, Fergus, would employ you. We're on our way to see him now."

"Fergus," repeated the man, wonderingly. "Teyrn Cousland?"

She nodded, tucking the child's blanket back into place while turning her gaze on Alistair. The king cleared his throat and roused himself from his dreamy reverie; rising to his feet to face the trembling father.

"The teyrn is rebuilding Castle Cousland's defences, so he's in need of skilled craftsmen," he explained, watching Flora from the corner of his eye. "We're on the road to Highever. You're welcome to join our company."

"Then you can afford a wet-nurse," added his wife, returning the sleeping bundle back to the speechless father. "And I'll feed the baby in the meantime."

"Your – your majesty! I- I can't… I can't say how much I… I…appreciate - "

The man trailed off, a chaotic miasma of emotions writ over his face. Flora absent-mindedly buttoned the woollen dressing robe back up, stifling a yawn.

_The reason Alistair agreed to become king was to protect the country, _she thought to herself, watching sheer relief settle across the new father's face as he watched his child sleep full-bellied and contented. _My job is to help the people living within it._

"Well, our twins aren't here yet," she replied quietly, feeling a little press within her belly. "And your baby needs help. The _purpose_ of the queen of Ferelden is to serve its people, as best she can. Even down to… the smallest ones."

Flora made to clamber to her feet, but Alistair was already there; reaching down to assist her gently upright. Once she was standing, he put a strong arm around her waist, keeping her close at his side.

"Ready for bed, my love?" he murmured, feeling her yawn against him.

"Mm."

A short while later, the king and queen of Ferelden rested amidst the blankets of their rented bed, the weathered velvet hangings drawn tightly closed. Both of them were naked and she was tucked in her customary position beneath his arm, his forefinger tracing the plump swell of her breast.

"How did it feel?" he murmured curiously, brushing his thumb very gently across her nipple.

"A bit ticklish," Flora replied, stifling a yawn. "But nice. I felt… helpful. Poor little baby with no mama."

Alistair drew up the blankets around his wife, ensuring that she got the lion's share of the embroidered wool. She rested her head against his shoulder, curling a strand of hair absentmindedly around her finger. Something fidgeted within her belly and she glanced down; seeing the outline of a small hand or heel nudging against the skin.

Alistair, whose eyes had also been drawn to the movement, inhaled a deep, unsteady gulp of air. Reaching out, he touched the tip of his callused finger to the distortion of flesh, stroking it with awed tenderness.

"Lo, look - it's _right there. _Maker's Breath. I wonder if that's our son or our daughter?"

"Dunno," replied Flora, sleepily. "Baby Boy Theirin, is that you?"

She patted the curve of her stomach, feeling a hard little nudge in response.

"Hm. Maybe!"

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: The historical name for childbed sickness is puerperal fever, or sepsis in other words – and it's one of the grimmest phenomena in the history of humankind. In some hospitals in the early-mid 1800s, the mortality rate of new mothers was up to forty percent! Ironically, male doctors contributed to this increased death rate because they treated other diseased patients , or did post-mortems, and then went straight to assist in labour (before germ theory in 1861, nobody would have seen any problem with this. Germs were visible under microscopes, but people assumed that they were the by-product of a disease transmitted by miasma, not the actual cause of disease). The survival rate in wards run by midwives were much higher, because they didn't handle diseased matter.
> 
> Lol sorry for that random little lecture! I've done a bit of research work on Semmelweiss, a professor of midwifery in the 1840s who tried to get the other doctors to wash their hands in lime chloride (an acid with antibacterial properties) before they entered the maternity ward. Unfortunately, nobody believed that his ideas were valid (this was before germ theory) and he died in an insane asylum. So tragic! Anyway, I actually ended up getting sepsis when I gave birth to my daughter back in July, and was in hospital for five days! So I have a newfound appreciation for Pasteur, Lister, Koch and the germ a theory squad haha. 
> 
> This was a very sweet chapter to write, especially after all the Carta dwarf kidnapping plot nastiness of recent chapters! For some reason, I've become very attached to the idea of Flora's fucking hideous, luridly mustard coloured woollen dressing gown. I love the visual contrast of this beautiful girl clad in possibly the ugliest garment ever fabricated, hahaha.


	139. A Story From Antiva

The next morning the royal company prepared to leave just after dawn; wanting to take advantage of the fine weather. The bags were re-packed, the horses watered and the broken wheel on the cart mended by the innkeeper's handy son. Teagan and Ser Gilmore had consulted with the owner of the tavern and were reasonably confident as to their route, while the scouts had ridden on ahead to ensure that no trees had come down in the night.

They had received another set of letters while staying at the inn – Leliana's ravens proving once again their worth when it came to tracking down their recipients. While the last few belongings were packed onto the carts, those with letters opened them in the main room of the tavern. There was a long missive from Eamon to Alistair, a note from Leliana herself to Zevran, another letter from the Chancellor intended for his brother. Wynne had received a letter from Irving; a rolled up sheaf of parchment nearly a foot in length.

There was also a letter from Loghain, delivered by messenger, and addressed to both king and queen. Noticing the seal of Vigil's Keep on the front, Alistair had taken it hastily, glancing down at his wife. Flora was seated in the armchair before the hearth, the baby feeding contently at the breast with small fingers drifting over her chest; her brow furrowed as she puzzled over a simple note from Leliana.

Wynne noticed the king taking the letter to one side, reading it with brow furrowed. Checking that Flora was preoccupied, the senior enchanter sidled over to Alistair's elbow, giving him a pointed nudge. Alistair startled, reflexively flattening the letter against his chest.

"If you're going to jump a foot in the air like that, Florence will certainly work out that something is wrong," reprimanded Wynne gently, as the king exhaled and lowered the letter. "What's the latest news from the east?"

Alistair lowered his voice, grateful that Teagan had stepped forwards to assist Flora and thus keep her distracted.

"The Wardens have found _something _in the Blackmarsh – a Darkspawn that _talks, _Wynne! I can't get my head around it. I've always just pictured them as snarling, incoherent _beasts. _How in the Maker did it learn the King's Tongue?"

Wynne let out a soft sigh of incredulity, her pale blue eyes thoughtful.

"I suppose the Darkspawn could change over time, as would any other race. What does it try and talk _about?"_

Alistair shook his head, with silverite shot through both his words and his hazel stare.

"I don't know, and I don't care. For once, Loghain and I are on the same page: Ferelden is no place for Darkspawn of _any _sort. I _won't_ have the safety of my people compromised, Wynne – I won't risk it."

The king glanced once more towards his fat-bellied queen. Flora had the baby resting atop her swollen abdomen as it suckled greedily at her breast; her attention half-on the letter from Leliana. She kept getting distracted by the baby's focused stare, which was solemn and unblinkingly fixed on her face. Teagan crouched beside the armchair, one finger moving slowly beneath the individual words of the letter.

"No, petal," he was saying, patiently. "H-I-G-H –ever. _Highever."_

"And you've still not mentioned a word of all this to your wife?" Wynne enquired, gently. "Alistair, she's not a child that needs to be sheltered from bad news. This girl has survived demons, dragons and Darkspawn!"

"I know," replied Alistair, watching his wife press a kiss to the baby's soft, downy head. "She has a spirit stronger than anyone I've ever met. But I can't have her running off to Vigil's Keep in an effort to 'help' – she's not a Warden anymore, she's got no magic, she's _three weeks from giving birth." _

"Most likely less than that," observed Wynne, looking at the great mound of Flora's stomach. "Those are some well-built infants, and I think they're probably ready to meet the world soon."

An involuntary smile tugged at the corner of Alistair's mouth. At the same time, a bright determination settled in his eyes; blunt and uncompromising.

"Flo has to be focused on the birth now," he said, quiet and yet utterly steely. "I won't have her distracted – or distressed – over events in Blackmarsh that she can do nothing about."

The royal company left the _Flagon and Blessing _soon afterwards, beneath an ominously grey-clouded sky. The carpenter and his infant son had no horse of their own – they had been travelling on foot. Baggage and belongings were shifted around in one of the wagons, and a space made for them to sit. The man, whose name was Conall, was still mute with disbelief at his sudden change in fortunes.

Damp hung in the air like freshly washed linen; mist swathed the tops of the surrounding pines like the veils worn by Rivaini brides. In the distance echoed the sound of the Waking Sea chewing angrily at the cliff-face, the waves teased into tall white caps by a stiff eastern wind. Yet the road that led to Highever did not follow the coastline, but meandered vaguely inland. Their route would take them first through a sprawling wood by the name of Mirning, then across a river-bridge and over a granite moor known across Ferelden for the quality of its stone. Their accommodation for the night would be in neither tent nor tavern, but in a manor belonging to a loyal Cousland knight by the name of Ser Camuel.

The Mirning woods turned out to be dark and pleasant. Shafts of sunlight penetrated the thick overhead canopy in gleaming columns; illuminating the vast trunks and tangled bushes. It was a fertile forest, with clumps of mushrooms sprouting between emergent roots and myriad berries weighting down the low-level foliage.

Flora had been snoring on Alistair's chest for the majority of the morning; weary from the thrice-interrupted night. The king held his wife with a strong arm, keeping her steady on the saddle as they followed the woodland trail. His head kept swivelling from side to side, recalling how the Carta dwarves had made their attack from the cover of trees the previous day.

"Alistair, if you keep twisting your head this way and that, it's going to come off," chided Wynne eventually, tired of his twitchiness. "Or you'll make yourself dizzy and tumble from the saddle."

Alistair, who had never fallen from horseback in his life, looked indignant.

"We need a distraction," continued the senior enchanter, stern-faced as she clutched the reins. "Ah, if only our bard were here!"

"Then_ I_ will tell a story," piped up Zevran, with a disarming smile. "One from my homeland, one that you have not already heard. And – do not worry – it does not involve my own personal escapades. We have infant company, after all."

The king nodded eagerly, his interest piqued. Alistair had always enjoyed hearing stories, especially ones with exotic origins. There had once been a cook from Nevarra working in Eamon's kitchens that had told the most _fascinating_ foreign stories about evil countesses, and enchanted mirrors, and storms that blew sand waist-high into the streets. Alistair had listened to her soft, accented tones for hours at a time; until Isolde had decided that an _Orlesian _cook was more fashionable, and sent the Nevarran away.

"The Antivan countryside is abundant with white-flowered almond trees; near-covered in great, blossoming orchards," began Zevran, his richly accented voice taking on a melodic timbre. "Yet the almond tree is not native to my homeland. There is a legend that the trees were brought into Antiva to make a sad queen smile."

The company fell quiet as they listened to the elf. Even the guards stopped their graphic discussion about the unpleasantries that they would inflict on any Carta dwarf that came their way. The sound of the elf's voice wove seamlessly into the soft tapestry of the woods; the rustles from the undergrowth; the whispering of a nearby stream. The horse's hooves and rolling cart-wheels were muffled against the mossy earth.

"Once, in the Steel Age, a great Antivan king named Limean extended the reach of his empire far beyond the boundaries of today's Antiva. He won many battles and captured the people whom he defeated as slaves. One expedition even went as far as the snowy reaches of the Anderfels."

Flora, who had been half-dozing, roused herself to listen. Like her husband, she adored hearing stories – whether it was a familiar Ferelden folklore, or some tale from distant lands.

"The Antivan king fell in love with a slave-girl from these snow-covered mountains, who had eyes like chips of ice and hair like spun gold. He married her and brought her back to Antiva. They were happy for some years, but after a while – the queen grew sadder and sadder."

Zevran shot a keen smile around at his audience to ensure that they were all paying heed. Each member of the royal company – including the father and his new baby – were listening astutely.

"The king despaired of ever seeing his wife smile again. He asked his favourite poet why the queen was so miserable, and the poet replied that the queen wanted to see winter once more. The king was now in torment, since this would be an impossible thing in the balmy climate of Antiva."

"She was probably also sad because she was enslaved, then forced to marry her captor," observed Wynne drily under her breath, promptly_ shushed_ by Alistair.

"Then one day, the king had an idea. He ordered for thousands of almond trees to be imported from Rivain and planted on the slopes around the palace. When the trees blossomed, it appeared as though the ground was covered in snow. At long last, the queen smiled."

The company was silent for a moment; a bird calling out high and strident in the green-tinged air overhead.

"My friend, you _should_ have become a bard," Teagan said after a moment, a wry smile curving across his face. "You've got a knack for storytelling."

Zevran grinned, leaning back in the saddle and plucking several berries from a nearby bush as they passed.

"Ah, but I do not have patience for socialising," he replied, rolling liquid-dark eyes. "Or the manners for it."

Meanwhile, Alistair – who had inferred his own meaning from the Antivan tale – was murmuring anxiously in his own displaced queen's ear.

"I'll transform the cove by the Royal Palace into a northern beach if you want it, my love! I'll… I'll have shingle and shipwrecks brought down from the Storm Coast to make it look authentic. I don't want you to feel homesick living in the east."

"You could move the villagers of Herring into the castle to make it even _more authentic," _replied Flora solemnly, then giggled as she felt her husband physically recoil.

"Ah – I… uh…."

The queen swivelled in the saddle and pecked her husband fondly on his bronze-stubbled chin; inhaling the familiar leather-grease and soap smell of him.

"I'm only joking," she whispered, earnestly. "And I don't need a northern beach to make me smile. You're all the home I need."

Alistair dropped the reins and put both arms around her, gripping the horse's flanks with strong thighs as he nuzzled his face into his own queen's neck.

"I love you, sweet wife."

"I love you too," she replied, squeaking as the short bristles on his chin quivered against her skin. "Eeeh, that tickles!"

They continued on for the rest of the day, their breaks determined by the intermittent grizzling of the hungry baby. Alistair was both stunned and impressed by the fact that such a tiny infant required such extensive feeding. Every time that their small procession drew to a halt beneath the wooded canopy, the king would watch the cheeks of the demanding little creature move frantically as it gulped down nourishment; one hand on Flora's breast and the other tangling tiny fingers within her hair. The queen had been taken aback by how easily nursing the infant had come to her – the whole experience felt oddly as though she had been doing it for years.

On one occasion, just after they had crossed the river – fortunately, the bridge had survived last night's storm – Alistair tore his eyes away from where his wife perched on the wagon step with babe in arms. With a foul taste in his mouth and a growing sense of nausea rooting itself in his belly, he caught the carpenter's attention.

"Can I ask you something?" he asked, fighting back the instinct that warned him off the question hovering on his lips.

The carpenter looked both astonished and terrified, bowing while simultaneously casting up wide, deep brown eyes.

"Your- _Your_ _Majesty!_ Of course, anything."

Alistair opened his mouth to speak and then decided that the wagon was too near; the other members of the company gathered close-by on the wide earthen road. The king strode several yards towards the grassy river bank, allowing the rushing of the rain-augmented waters to disguise his words. The carpenter followed, with trepidation writ clearly across his weary features.

"King Alistair?"

"I'm sorry to ask this," Alistair said, rueful but utterly intent. "But, I… I need to know."

The man glanced at the king's bright, anxious face, his eyes sliding sideways to where the queen was weighed down by her overripe belly.

"You want to know the particulars of how my Nesi died," he replied, quietly. "My wife."

_The one who died in childbed, _Alistair thought to himself. _Like Zevran's mother. Like my own mother._

The king went a shade paler beneath the natural olive of his skin; but when he spoke, his voice was pure, steely silverite.

"The queen _will _survive the birth," Alistair said, matter-of-factly. "There's no other possible outcome. She's going to be _absolutely fine,_ but…"

Conall looked up with rueful resignation; one new father regarding another.

"But you still want to know," he replied, steeling himself visibly. "Aye, well – it's the least I can do."

Once more, the carpenter's gaze swung towards his suckling son; dark eyes softening as he watched the baby feed to fullness.

"The birth itself weren't the problem. Took less than three candles. Babe was born healthy, Nesi seemed well. For one night, I was the happiest man in Thedas. Then, the next morning, she… woke with a fever."

Alistair grimaced, the involuntary reaction of one who knew full-well how the story was going to end.

"Just a mild fever, and a rash across her belly. I thought it was nothing serious, but my poor Nesi was terrified – I know _now _that she knew what it meant. By midday, her skin felt as though it were aflame. By sundown, her stomach had swollen up with foul miasmas, and she… she weren't talking no sense. She died before the dawn of next day. It was so _fast."_

The man recited this string of events dispassionately, as though recanting the troubles of somebody else. Only his eyes, pulsing with anguish, gave away the torrid emotion beneath the calm.

"Flo says that in Herring, the midwife washes down everything with saltwater," Alistair breathed, forgetting about formalities in the circumstances. "She says that they hardly ever got a case of childbed fever, though she couldn't explain why."

The carpenter, whose wife was long beyond the aid of salt-water, gave a sad half-shrug.

"It's in the hands of the Maker, I suppose. He chooses who He wants to draw to Him."

"Well, He's not having Flo," retorted Alistair, immediately. "She's _mine, _for the next five decades."

"Who's not having me?" piped up Flora, who had finished with the baby and brought it back to its father.

An alarmed Alistair turned to his wife, worried that she might have caught the gist of their conversation. But Flora appeared contented enough, carefully detangling tiny fingers from her hair.

"The Carta," he said after a moment, picking the slightly-lesser of two evils. "You're mine forever, darling."

"Like a limpet stuck to a rock," Flora replied cheerfully, nuzzling into the baby's cheek before handing it back. "Or a hook through a fish-eye!"

"Eurgh!!"

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I wanted to finish the chapter on a slightly funnier note because the second part was quite grim!
> 
> The almond story is based on a Spanish folk story! I thought it was very sweet, and I love the whole story within a story thing!


	140. A Happy Reunion

The nearer the royal company came to Highever, the more civilised the roadway became;graduating from humble dirt track to wide, earthen street. There were sign-posts at regular intervals when the route branched, channels dug at the edges of the road to drain excess water, and even the occasional lamp-post. The terrain was still unmistakably northern – the forests sprung up from craggy spurs of basalt and they were constantly travelling either up or down-hill – yet, the further _east_ they went, the more docile the landscape became. The wild temper of the Storm Coast was dissipated with its proximity to Highever; diluted by calmer seas and more favourable climate.

Yet the town itself lay out of reach for the day – the royal company still had twenty miles of quarry-filled land to traverse before they reached the capital of Fergus' teyrnir. Instead, they would be spending the night at a manor owned by a loyal Cousland retainer, a knight by the name of Ser Cambuel. He had been one of Bryce Cousland's most long-standing servants; who had fought at the teyrn's side on innumerable occasions, over many decades. A chance occurrence – a robbery at one of the farms on his land – had called him away from Highever before Rendon Howe's attack; he was thus spared the blade that was dealt to so many other Cousland retainers.

They reached the edge of the manor's land just as the sun sunk below the western horizon; shadows massing themselves in the dips between the hills. The manor itself was a good-sized building, constructed from grey Highever stone on an unusually flat expanse of land. A square tower with a crenelated roof rose up at its centre, with two short wings extending out to each side. The western wing, with its more open windows and elegant stone detailing, appeared to be a later addition to the original Storm Age construction.

As they rode towards the squat silhouette of the manor, Alistair realised that this night's accommodation signalled their return to more formal society. Hastily, the king of Ferelden retrieved the golden band of authority from where it was nestled in a nearby saddlebag; flattening down his rumpled golden hair with a hasty palm before placing the band atop his head.

"My beauty," he murmured next to Flora, running a thumb affectionately over the curved pink shell of her ear. "Ready for all this rigmarole again, love?"

Flora had already dug out her own slender band from the inner pocket of her tunic. Her hair proved more temperamental than Alistair's; with some liberal application of water from the king's pouch, they managed to tame it sufficient to position the band on her brow. Flora reached up to swivel the inlaid pearl to the front of her forehead, stifling a yawn as a blaze of torchlight caught her eye.

Ser Cambuel and his entire household – two gangly adolescent sons, a pack of over-excited Mabari and a cluster of servants – were gathered on the gravel forecourt before the main doorway, awaiting the royal company's arrival. Men with lanterns on long poles had been sent to stand at the side of the road leading up to the manor; illuminating the last few hundred yards of their journey. Fortunately, a full moon had risen early and added a soft, pewter glow to their surroundings.

The men were clad from head to toe in Highever navy; the banners hanging above the iron-studded doorway bore the Cousland laurel interspersed with the knight's own insignia. Ser Cambuel himself was a tall and powerfully built soldier, with short-cropped greying hair and a hawkish intensity to his well-worn features.

As the royal company drew to a halt on the gravelled forecourt, the entire household bent double at the waist, the torchlight flickering erratically as the lantern-bearers also bowed.

"Greetings, King Alistair!" the old knight declared, as Alistair gave a measured gesture signifying _at ease. _"It is my great honour to host you tonight. Please, let my men take your horses and baggage – I have dinner, and a warm hearth ready."

"Well, you had me at _dinner," _replied Alistair cheerfully, dropping agilely to the gravel and reaching up his arms to his wife. "Down we come, darling."

Flora eased herself down alongside him, hiding a grimace at the persistent aching of her body. She was beginning to regret her previous stubbornness in refusing to ride in the wagon with the baggage. This was something that she had once protested against so vehemently that she now felt unable to back-track on her words.

The greying knight stared at the queen for a long moment, gesturing silently for one lantern-bearer to bring their imprisoned flame closer. Ser Cambuel's astonished gaze took in Flora's fine-boned features, the full, sulky mouth, the sea-grey eyes and – most tellingly – the cloud of rich oxblood hair in a single heartbeat; the colour draining from his face until only the pigmented spots of age remained.

"By the Maker," he croaked, dropping to a knee on the forecourt with a crunch of gravel. "Bryce's wee girl, all grown. Who would've thought it?"

Once more, his household and retainers bowed deeply at the waist. Flora, whose memory had flickered in brief, distant recognition on seeing the man's craggy face, now stared down at the top of the man's head. Truthfully, she had forgotten how to react when being bowed to – after all, it had not happened in over two months.

Fortunately, Ser Cambuel's joints were too arthritic to permit him to kneel for long. Soon, he had risen to his impressive height once again, barking instructions to excitable stable lads while simultaneously introducing his sons to the royal couple.

"This is my Bart," he said proudly, gesturing to the gangly elder of the two adolescent boys. "And my youngest, Harry. My oldest boy is off squiring in Amaranthine."

Ser Cambuel's two sons shifted from foot to foot on the gravel, sneaking darting glances between the tall, golden-haired king and his solemn-faced queen. There was an edge of disbelief to their gaze when settling on the latter. It was hard for them to reconcile their mental image of the army-leading, Archdemon-slaying_ Hero of Ferelden _with the short, sleepy-eyed girl before them; only a few years their senior and heavy with child.

"Right, then," said Alistair, conscious of the boys' curious stares. "What have we got for dinner, ser?"

With their horses and baggage in the care of the knight's servants, the royal company were led through the front door and into the manor's entrance chamber. A candelabra of entwined antlers hung overhead, while a series of faded family portraits hung above the staircase – each one spotted with damp and age.

Ser Cambuel directed them towards the main hall – a high, draughty space too narrow to accommodate all the items that had been crammed into it. It held a long, solid wooden table clustered with chairs, several suits of dust-covered armour, standing candelabras made from cast iron, and a harp missing most of its strings tucked into one corner. By the look of the engravings on the furniture and brandings on the metalwork, much of it had once resided in Castle Cousland.

Seeing that the Chasind carpenter was hovering uncertainly near the back of the room with the infant in his arms, Flora nudged Alistair's elbow. The king hastily stopped admiring the engraving on a nearby suit of armour and cleared his throat, turning to the nearby knight.

"This man is travelling with us to Highever," he explained, gesturing. "Would you be able to accommodate him and send up food?"

Ser Cambuel had begun to nod even before Alistair had finished his request, instructing a nearby servant to show the new father to the guest quarters.

_I'll come in to feed the baby later_, Flora mouthed as he was guided away; glimpsing a swell of gratitude in the man's dark eyes.

Alistair was shown to the seat of honour at the head of the table; with Flora seated to his right, and the knight on his left. Flora had another seat conspicuously empty on her other side, which she eyed in confusion for a moment before getting distracted by the musings of her companions.

As the servants brought out poached pears and brandied apples – huge jugs of cream were already on the table - Wynne and Zevran continued their argument from earlier. Although the timbre of the conversation was light, the topic was a serious one – the position of Circles in modern Theodesian society. Wynne was trying to persuade the elf that the structures were not _prisons_; in Ferelden at least, a Harrowed mage was free to leave the Circle at will.

"But that is not the same for all Circles across Thedas," replied Zevran, skilfully bisecting a wine-poached pear with his blade. "In the Marches, mages and Templars are as prisoners and jailers. In Antiva, they are guarded with equal strictness. I am uncertain why Ferelden is so different."

"We Fereldans value our freedom," interjected Alistair, swallowing an overlarge mouthful with some difficulty. "Even the nobility here need the support of their freemen, which is given or withdrawn as necessary. There are no serfs or bond-slaves in this land."

"That's a good point, Alistair," added Wynne, dabbing her mouth with a napkin in a far more elegant manner. "I wonder if an innate concept of liberty _pervades_ through the culture of Ferelden – perhaps, even through the stone walls of the Circles?"

Flora, who was not a great participant in intellectual discussion at the best of times, felt even less inclined to do so when she was tired. Letting the conversation pass back and forth above her head, she concentrated on spearing the pear-halves with her fork.

"It's all a bit too high-minded for dinner, don't you think, Flossie?" whispered a dry, amused and entirely familiar voice in her ear. "My university tutor once told me that intellectual conversation whilst eating contributed to _pernicious indigestion."_

Flora let out a squeal so loud and piercing that Wynne dropped her fork with a clatter and the Royal guards sprung to attention. Launching herself upwards with remarkable dexterity considering her size, the queen hurtled around her seat and flung herself straight into the receiving arms of her slender, scholarly brother.

"_Finiaahhhh-aaah- ahhhh!" _

The moment that her cheek collided with the fine velvet of Finian's tunic, Flora burst into a bout of uncontrollable weeping; part due to the instability of her body and part due to genuine delight at seeing her brother again. Over the past two months, the queen had found herself sorely missing Finian, and Fergus too. Despite their relatively recent return into her life, Flora had rapidly branded them as _family _in her own consciousness.

"By Andraste," observed the astonished Finian, whose elegantly-clad frame stood out in stark contrast to the rustic backdrop of the knight's hall. "You've almost as much width as you've height, Floss."

Flora inhaled a great gulp of the distinctive sandalwood perfume that her brother favoured, her fingers winding themselves in the plush fabric of his garb. Too overcome to form coherent words, she continued to sniffle fervently; caught in the throes of emotion.

The others in the royal company also rose to greet Finian, albeit at a more measured rate. Wynne delivered the young arl fond peck on the cheek, Teagan gripped his arm and Alistair embraced him the best he could manage with Flora still clinging on like a particularly tenacious barnacle. Zevran greeted his past lover with more deliberate nonchalance; although his smouldering eyes promised _a proper greeting, later. _

"I thought you were meeting us at Highever," Alistair observed, inwardly delighted at his wife's abject happiness. Her disappointment at Herring had lingered with the king, and he was inordinately relieved that she seemed as equally enamoured with her birth-family as she had been with her adoptive one.

"Fergus is still there to oversee preparations," Finian replied, stroking an affectionate hand over his sister's dark-red head. "But I thought I'd come and escort you to Highever myself. Flossie, you're getting my tunic _soggy. _Do you know how much Nevarran velvet costs? No, I expect not."

The two younger Cousland siblings resembled each other more closely than the eldest; they shared the same autumnal colouring, full mouths and delicately-hewn bone structure. Although both of them had been left irrevocably marked by the final battle, Finian's scars were more blatant – he wore a patch to hide an empty eye-socket, and a lurid pink scar curled its way down the side of his cheek. Instead of bemoaning the marring of his handsome features, Finian had embraced his newly piratical appearance. He had grown out his fox-fur curls to shoulder length, and his smile had grown a rakish edge to it.

Flora pressed her face into her brother's sinewy chest, not yet willing to release him. Finian gently drew himself back to elbow's length, his remaining eye angling itself up and down his sister's overripe body.

"Floss, I dare say that being with child suits you," he observed, surveying her flushed cheeks. "You look very well, though almost ready to _burst!" _

"_Burst?! _Can… can that _happen?!" _

The arl of Amaranthine laughed as his little sister shot him an appalled look, reaching out to chuck her gently under the chin.

"I'm jesting, sweetheart. Come on, let's sit and finish dinner."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Hurray! Now we're into the latter stages of the progress, it's time to start bringing back some familiar faces. Finian's back, and then we'll be back at Highever with Fergus! It was nice to cheer Flora up a little bit, since her return to Herring was so anti-climatic. It's funny to see how attached she is to Finian now, especially re-reading the chapter where they first met at Redcliffe Castle. Finian brought along two Templars and a mage cage to capture his 'powerful sorceress' sister; Flora threw herself into the lake and swam back to Redcliffe village to get away from him. Ahahahaa!

**Author's Note:**

> The story picks up immediately after The Lion and the Light finishes - and we see what Eamon's proposal is! I didn't want the loss of Flora's magic to have no consequences - and I thought it was realistic that there would need to be this official verification process of her non-mage status. So no it's not going to be HAPPILY EVER AFTER for Flo, I don't make life that easy for her, hahaha. I also wanted to show the result of 'hardened' Alistair's character development - he's not afraid to stand up to Eamon.


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